Thin Lines, Thick Lines

 

Thin Lines, Thick Lines

 

Back in the 70s, The Persuaders claimed

with some authority, it was only a thin line;

later, on ‘Learning to Crawl’,

The Pretenders sang the same –

both were wrong, it’s a bloody thick one.

Is it a line at all? More like a brick wall;

with barbs and spikes, sweat up it and fall,

negotiate machine gun turrets, no man’s land

and let Robin put his arrow right through it.

You know you’re onto jack-shit

when arguments summon Languor

of Olympus - antique Greek God of Disanger,

with all his attendant minions,

stepping gaily and off to ‘Mairi’s Wedding’.

You try telling that to the Poindexters

or Teddy Pendergrass - they won’t believe you -

no, it’s all sinister steps and extra textures

for them, one eyed blind giants feeling the fleece

as Odysseus, belly up, hides beneath

clutching clefs that unlock boxes to release

universal truths or dropping keys to D minor

to signify sadness, madness or both.

You know what once was is toast

when nothing much happens at all –

You just sit without, within your brick wall

wax crayoning thicker and thicker lines

but don’t bother to exhibit a waste of time.

In the end, my friend put it best –

‘You will know,’ she said, ‘When I don’t bother,

to tell you your hair’s getting longer,

trim your nails, take pride in caring your feet,

tell you to change your shirt, lay clean sheets

before I put you into bed.

Now, this milk made for old people like us two

to live long life – I started to take this one;

so must you.’ And - you do.