“Read All About It … “

 

 

The World:

It’s news …

Hello!

Standards slipping?

The Messenger’s Wife

Is throwing herself

At the Sun Again?

O.K.

The Heat is on,

No thought for the Times,

Those that may be

Changing gear again.

Sentinel says,

To the Echo,

That the Guardian’s

Out of touch,

Like the Star;

That we cannot depend

On the Mirror’s reflection;

‘tis too Independent

By far.

Where, oh where

Can I read the truth

Behind the truths

I read?

The Same Old Morphine Drum.

Blood and blind faith

Were never going to be enough

On the long, harsh, decision-deferment slog;

We must have known it all along,

Carrying this indigestible truth

Silently inside every one of our

Bones, lights and souls as we

Hoped and cast charms to close out the world

With hushed fires and rough, loud whiskies.

But,  oh my, too, too soon

It’s tap – tap …

And, even at this remove,

We shake and shiver

While toad-skinned smoke

Writes its glib falsehoods.

Desperation is playing

The same old, shame-old

Morphine drum that beats no retreat

Then repeat, repeat, repeats and echoes

Around history’s full compass.

Behind dirty lilac curtains

Of spinning, cowardly clouds,

Even the sun weeps.

Truth will be brought to the table,

Perhaps,  another, future-distant dawn.

 

24/8/2013

Click!

I am one simple step

Off the path;

The heather and grass move

And, as suddenly as that – click! –

I am a little lost:

Not quite of, and in, this world,

Not quite not.

Surrounded by the ringing charms

Of constant-cuckoo choir;

And the long-travelled  voices

Of ghosts of migrant geese,

The high, wind-thinned whining

Of a fence that leans

On shifting shadow-cloud;

Marching stoically into

The resolute grey distances and futures:

The truth alone may

never be enough again.

 

30/5/2013

Time, Whisky and Friends

As if overstaying

My fragile welcome

Were not enough

I had to fall

Off the wagon again;

Fall so hard I missed my

Leaving-thunder train

By a pocketful of hours.

Now I’m buying

Time, whisky and friends

In a lock-in bar, while,

Outside, in the sodium lit fog

Two hog-jockeys and

A crooked lawman

Take it out of the

Latest version of my god.

Ghost of the Big man

Blows tears through his

Angel horn, like he always did:

Truth is a pale, poor story.

21/6/2013

The Doctor.

I’ve slept since then –

More than once if truth be told – and

The picture’s changed,

The world moved on

In generation strides.

So much so that

This is a different story.

But yet …

But yet I cannot get over

What happened to the doctor – and

What happened to me

In all of the giddy-roundabout,

Switchback, switchblade years

He caringly tended  my family.

I know those adventure and apple days,

Cock-crow dawns and time-dam days

Are gone, gone, gone like small-candle smoke

In big-night, blue winds, but still,

Sometimes, it truly seems as if

He is still here,

Then is still now.

18/5/2013