14 Jan 2011

Poems are never finished, only abandoned.

(to paraphrase someone or other...)

Sanity: £1.99

It is always raining
As old men and
Old women slink out of their holes onto the grey streets
They jump at their own shadows
And pass each other by to run towards the money
Eyes clamped like a big cat just hours away from
Starving to death

Not even the raindrops can muster real strength
They are pathetic and dying
Useless as they come to rest upon eyelids and cheeks
I walk past a pile of clothing on the pavement
2 shoes
Police tape
And feel the walls around me grow higher
There is no one here worth a damn

And the best we can manage is to be
Pleasant and agreeable
Blending in to the point of fading

Nice is a blunt razor
Nice is the death howl of a cat under the car tyre
Nice is grit in your eyes
Cremation dust thrown into the air
It is walking a fine cotton thread long past
Breaking point

Yet here I am still balancing
No clue as to how or when or why
It is always raining
And the paving stones and warm soft tarmac
Treacle black
Dissolve within the monstrous winter

A bite is taken out of the moon
And the smiling crescent looks down at me
Sipping my expensive coffee
And hiding away to keep dry
There is no one else left to prove anything