Appendectomy 5.5.17

Appendectomy.5.5.17 pic

they are apparitions

wand like figures

on a bent horizon

so diffident they can’t explain

released from the holding room

my body transcends it’s organs

and slips beyond responsibility

to that place where darkness is not king

for the fear has been released

so that white bleaches the figures

whose honed titanium blades slit

the fortress of my containing skin

their spoils are mine, to discard

my body relieved these gods disappear

back to a life of their own

and return to me as haunts

Dead Zone

Dead Zone.jpg

Old bones in the morning ache

like cogs and wheels accumulating

rust from a cloying atmosphere

Decrepitude. It mocks

But I sense in this calling of time

a humour that goes with the warning

I can languish in the arrested zone

and take stock

starring in some delicious dreams

so real that heaven has surely come

and wrapped me in a welcome blanket

So here, between the light and dark

I am a novice

ready to go lightly and laugh

at the tolling of last orders.

Ladies and Gentlemen. Please.

Bully Boys Brag

Bully Boys Brag

All of it, the wished for song

of air squeezed and compressed to utter

chants. Those tribal, primal, screams

that seek to possess

to claim victory

and leave an image, a semblance

of superiority like musk on a jungle trail

or the laments of survivors over

their dead

Those chosen ones who somehow contrive

to vacuum the air of remorse

as they swell in their putrid vanity.

Those purely muscled men strike poses

and raise flags over a smoking wasteland

claiming victory

already succumbing to inertia

Their fat arses on a bed of hungry weeds

feeding that strident song

it’s notes looping away on collapsing thermals

of bravado

in the laying down of new mown history

uncertain in its fledgling state

The stench of power

The “justified” abuse contrives

to be respectable

whilst the losers scrape to find

some solace in whispered prayers

Damn

damn

I see my grey hair in pictures with the family

and realise that I am already passing

into history

How long will it be until the smile fades to ash

and colours in the inks lose their vitality

Can that frame hold fast and keep the memory

or will indifference and fashion

make it hasten into a lost obscurity

Will it all by-pass photo-shop

with it’s technical brilliance,

the mastered pixel rendered and held

for heaven to view in the cloud

Perhaps I am destined to inhabit

the space that the picture frame

purports to keep in an enigmatic perpetuity.

Damp Squib

 

damp-squib-pic-for-poem

Gyrating, sucked-in, in foul malevolent air

the bomb expands in creeping silence

across faces in the dark auditorium

A wasteland around the crater your words have formed

Instead of an eruption of friendly noise

and the scrape and friction of applause

only silence. And you,

spot-lit. Oozing gastric fear

Your smile fused in a rictus

of knowing this instant has changed

and lost meaning in a somersault

volte face

To bomb

Lights out. Thank-you

 Left desolate in the litter of scrapped thoughts

Alone. A ragged fragment.

Too many ‘I’s

too-many-is-pic

I was recently offered a seat on a tube

by a young woman with compassion in her heart,

no doubt

but my pride interpreted that as spite

and I refused

left hanging on a strap in mortal decline

and ever since, the scene, it’s implications

re-spooled

play back to me in a quiet yet insistent fugue

You vain ‘old’ fool is the sound-track

following me

trapped words in the carriage of my spoiled journey

A constant rattle and schism as I go about forgetting

that age has put his drape on me

that my vital signs are more evident

to others than to the being I recognize

I can no longer refer to myself in the third person,

casual, flippant or heroic

not now that I am transparent

at large in someone else’s order of magnitude.

I shall stand until I am forced

through stages

to lie down.

Never did

never-did

I never had authority, a uniform

so now, as age advances

and men in suits strut and utter

incoherent commands

I am more, not less confused

Their balance sheets and due diligence

find me straggling in a long column

of easily forgotten figures

wrapped in the inconvenient flag of conscience

But in that too there lacks an impetus

that will to fight has gone

and with it any hope

for the spoils of victory

The swagger of the coming man has gone

like a moon shadow

that softest of forms recedes

ambiguous in departure

from the territories of man and boy

going quietly to a greater dark