Integrity (2)

 

Integrity (2)

 

When I retire, I’ll look for somewhere

with fresh running water, clean air

put my feet up, play guitar

in some LoFi jobbing pub band

where the sound of two hands

clapping won’t cover up mistakes

amateurs like us are bound to make.

Write grungy poetry such as this,

expect to be kissed by the mistress,

seek out all my ex-lovers,

offer them flowers and forgiveness.

Like a Skyline Pigeon, be set free,

tossed up, seeking irresponsibility,

the taste of pillow slips, flossed sheets,

and balling my head into my feet.

But, as for the here, as for the now,

you sought me out, trapped me somehow,

tottered in here demanding answers,

scrolling through your phone -

a foreknowledge of knowing glances,

what happens when you take your chances,

swop out truth for something rancid.

Integrity (1)

 

Integrity (1)

 

A most remarkable march, that,

where your Master would have had a fit

on the grinder, if he’d pinged it –

you can hear his screams now

painting a pretty picture in spit

like why did we enlist yer, yer git?

or what's the village doing for an idiot

while you're away?

Something along those lines at any rate -

his swinging arms are a state,

nowhere near the requisite ninety

and he’s cue-balled his fists

until his knuckles are lily white -

but where’s the fight

he’s expecting? He’s drawn the crowds,

they’re chanting something loud

and he’s going for the full fifteen rounds

in his head, better off dead,

better off far away from here.

Father? Yes dear?

Now, there’s something queer,

he’s trailing boy behind him, his son

who, to keep pace, has to run,

looking aloft at his blustery white beard.

A timely reminder, if one were required

that every match sparks fire,

and every pitbull sports an inner golden labrador.

I wondered about the score,

not that there’s any love lost

and I chuckled when he was torn apart by the boss –

looking for a dignified exit,

there’s an entire parade ground out of step

and the system lacks integrity,

yet I thought they both made for a pretty

picture and felt ashamed.

Somebody loves him - makes a difference,

and the sun should continue to climb

long after we forget who he is and time

erases a collective memory -

and though he was my enemy

I went there and slapped in for clemency.

Silent Noise

 

Silent Noise

 

You often wonder if others hear it –

the sound of the world,

the sound of the crowd.

Do they? No - you suffer alone

amongst that constant drone

of aircons set viciously high.

Background percolation of machines

brewing a mumbled hubbub,

and children unleashed, each a thief

of peace, raising cain

in premeditated, murderous grief.

Aimless, tuneless preprogrammed keys,

synthesizing unmusical fills

slip into any remaining space and drill

through teeth to seek out abscess

and as you struggle to draw breath -

here’s your unsilent-set cell phones.

Put on headphones, more noise,

it must be admitted

if only for yourself -

but even here you’re penetrated;

it seeps in and bleeds noisy fingers through.

More din from across seas -

both incessant in vain-glorious trumpetry

while self-satisfied influencers are pleased

with whatever illiterate 140 character conceits

you must block out or delete.

But, you’re ever the one defeated,

calls for ceasefire or a hiatus

ignored – which is inevitable,

when you’ve no weapons to lay down

and screams cannot cut sound.

Arrival

Arrival

 

I saw you standing tall,

the day after the day after you left,

wasting good breath.

Only tall because of those stiletto heels -

more plastic tentpole,

than academic colossus.

You were talking to the new boss

and beating off about their loss

all horsey and garrulous –

like anyone would give a toss -

packing your habitual whinny,

all nasal and tinny.

Go. Off into history hobble,

strutting like a tenth rate model,

in the left your phone

and the right, a paper cup, dripping foam

of some sickly Starbucks

delivered by motorbike.

Go. Take an overseas hike

and choke your future by the throat.

Here’s a whip-round - your best sicknotes

with no forwarding address –

I’d wish you success

but what I loved the best

was the arrival of the day you left.

I grow tired - I'm thinking no longer.

 

I grow tired - I'm thinking no longer.

 

I don’t think about you now –

but this, you’d maybe guess,

is only an affectation, an affliction,

a contradiction,

running stubborn to my beliefs –

so, think me a thief.

 

In here, you’re stripped bare,

naked as I intended –

 

I took away the plinth,

kenneled all those pet names

and myths I imbued you with,

all our ‘love live forever’ stuff

and nonsense,

all fondant fancies -

aerosols of synthesized cream whip

that soaked stale cake

to make hard crumbs of comfort

fit for your lips.

 

The excuses I made and uses

I put your memory to

befit your passing from this state

to another – the conceits

and sophistry that granted you pardon,

have slowly hardened -

become a buried marble mosaic

under the cinder and ashes

of some inner Herculaneum bathroom

where two burnt statues recline.

 

But, all this lack of thought

has made me tired,

and perhaps you, too –

I no longer want to bring fire,

which is, perhaps, the fate of all

thieves who strike matches – small

sparks leave match wood residues,

charcoal stains on fingertip whorls.

A Blossom of Influence

 

A Blossom of Influence

 

The cherry blossom’s spiked

in Chelsea and Kensington

and so have showers of like-hungry shite

that come to influence it.

 

You wonder where these fuckers come from

or buried their brains

when every year’s the same -

out with the phones, grinning inane

at themselves - then complain

 

when your actual residents paint it black

roll out barbed wire, upturn thumb tacks,

cover drives in broken glass

in the empty hope they might bag

one of these preening peacock airheads.

 

Hot on their heels, your Sky reporter,

BBC, GB News, they’re all alike,

with clueless comment, cliched views

seen lurking about this quarter

filming trails, filming the masses,

shoving microphone and camera

up each other's smart arses,

then, cue fluff - a John Hartson fill

looking pitiful, dispensably miserable -

a juggler of sow’s ears, darning needles,

cheap accessories, baubles, threads

thinks we’re better-off dead:

 

I’m afraid it’s all in vain,

too far down the road to ruin;

around about us, bleeding, strewn,

all those trashed cherry blossomed trees -

your scabies-rash of influencers

transmitting social disease.

A Heartbreak in Every Home

 

A Heartbreak in Every Home

 

More than a pang of pathos,

more like a stab

and the more’s the pity.

 

Your loss is their loss,

feeling a family of two – sitting,

both together alone,

and budding headphones.

 

You cannot read their story in any book,

across the room – a look

possibly euphoria, possibly tragedy,

whatever's absent, a mystery

if anything's absent at all –

a family of two, curled up small.

 

Nothing or something felt

across the room – nothing crimes

committed which cannot be solved,

nothing sins you cannot absolve,

Sherlock was never needed here –

there are no clues to find.

 

Whatever bitterness covers apple rind

can be scrubbed off with toothbrush

washed under the sink; rinsed –

it’s just you who overthinks,

guilty as charged – you seal

what there is nothing to feel,

thieve where there is nothing to steal,

bleed from wounds already healed –

 

don’t send for the doctor,

the police, the prophet:

when you know every home has its closet.