scraps

Scraps. Poem photograph

 

They never fall

those spots of reason

on flesh drawn tight, in retreat, braying

hauled about and withered

by fears stacked up

and shrieking at, no other way

because there was

no other way, not for them

not then behind their bared teeth

 

but now a rush of rust on metal, it’s scalding heat,

illuminating those screech marks of decay

like time, bold on the eaten substance whose texture

might render beauty to a mind

so bidden

but,

lassitude allows mould

to fret and gather over

those dull accomplishments

and the question of;

what is this ache, this cause?

that infects the colour blue

that famous state

folk hero hue

that is an attitude of mind gone flaky with

an intimate knowledge

belonging to more than just the few.

 joined by other colours and stripes

like red and yellow, their snipers blazing

indignant, implacable; a virus rising behind immunity

our politicians so adept at leaving

 

scraps

always scraps

that in the end

are left

in view

and reason that escapes

all of them in that milieu

flailing

Flaining. a pic

 

like a Speaker in The House

groping for words – for Order, Order

and spluttering in the midst of so many chosen  mots justes

falling to ground

the scrapings of wisdom in those passionate arguments

that swirl around him

are dusted with the aroma of salt and phlegm

with so much indignation swelling on waves of righteousness

even the buttoned leather upholstery is self-regarding

as it harbours safe seats

whose members have much to say

their propaganda bleaching the very enamel from teeth

 bared to make the most of emphasis

as they ride on the beast of persuasion insisting

that possession is nine tenths of the law

all of them,  frayed ayes and frayed not’s

Right Honourable Friends

sweeping the floor, divining in the dust

for what to make of history

In sufferance

sear suitable for both sides of a debate.1

 

a man lounges across a seat

his entitlement there for all to see

the langour so natural

bred from a line that seeks only

to suborne the common man

and in that cameo his cause may be lost

to an epic mistake

exposed by a yawn with his class etched

on a bench that history will detest

the moment noted as he would have it;

“mark my words”

and all the screaming echoes of derision go

to the wind and hound him

forever more

forever less

in the face of the common man who knows irony

as we are all embroiled in the fate

of  Europe’s union of nation states

Inheritance

Inheritance. pic for poem

 

and so they throw stones

the disadvantaged ones

with one less letter to atone for loss

venting with spleen, milk-shakes and votes

or worse in some cases – battery acid

as the temperature rises in this moment of  time

we are it seems ” gathered here today”

though not harmoniously, not like a congregation

we are disparate and seeking

vocal yet inchoate

the fault lines more evident as time presses

the beauty pageant for votes more desperate

we who pride ourselves on democracy, we sophisticates

as if we were

solid citizens with a mature sense of history

yet we equivocate and murmur, disseminate untruths

pitching for a purpose on the greasy pole and forget

so much of this has gone before and always

in the aftermath – mistakes will glow

are we bigots, ingrates or xenophobes

on this small island so tightly packed?

one and all will  be stained by this moment in time

but those that seek power will be remembered

as trace elements of the fire – furore – uroar

and be gone

so smile, please

so smile, please. pic for poem

 

in shreds

all torn, left bleak

the frayed edges still

are laid flat like mould

on the corpse of failed hope

 

the tired man

in the morning aches

for more fluid limbs

sunshine in the senses

and petrol in the tank

to deny accumulating years

 

sounds,  emotion, intercourse

all around normal

cease to spark or lift

this dependant soul

until in truth

conscience pricks self-pity

 

so, praise for humour

when truth takes scissors

to the false preening of vacuity

and draws together scraps

of the fabric

that makes me whole

Nowhere man

 

Nowhere man. pic for poem

 

a vagrant slouches in the doorway

like a bee fallen softly into apathy

and he glances at a waste bin with shallow contempt

for its dismal offerings and the fanfare of flies

that guard the lurid bounty of spent purchases

so casually tossed away

 

lunch-time in the metropolis and the big game

stroll oblivious to those who lie wounded

their hours of need yawning into a squeezed frame

as his eyes focus on something far away

beyond all this unpleasantness,  just like the bee,

quiet before the fall into a long silence