I ambled fortunate enough through,
My youthful days,
My unripe days,
My truthful days.
My rifled through days.
I found many ways of spinning.
Because of glass filled bars and ice cubes,
Of their peer pressure,
Their pulling, and pushings’ on, through ’til dawn.
And the puking, and rings, and finings.
I nursed the seams of my heart.
Bursting laughs with tears,
And flushing fears away,
Along with the trepidation of adulthood.
These were just episodes in the wholesale unmasking of a man.
It was just so, so 70’s
The making of a shudder,
With little more to be said.
Those were my vintage years
But in truth only the clip clop
Of clap trap,
A mere tic toc of ghastly tales,
Taking the wrecking ball to my youth
And describing it.
If our visit to sand has been forgotten,
These lines ought to revive the day.
Of waters at the edge of tide,
The toe curling, drunken daring.
Let’s recall of that seaside way.
So Lancastrian, so Fylde.
And of The Manchester,
And The Chamber of Horrors.
Or at other times,
Not a fig leaf or the tree.
Not my Adam to your Eve,
But a gentle kind of a closeness.
A safe banner to caress.
And once you gave me your Words of stinging truth
They were to me like,
Guards at the Garden Gate.
You were able to sear
Right through my flimsy fumbling love.
Thus was the drama turned on me and I,
But a dreamy ghost,
Survive as a felled, bluff man.
I had my innocence shaken from me.
And I became your flimsy forever.
My cartwheel love, is like billboard love,
It’s message spans the annals.
Be it in arm or hand,
Or eye or hammer,
Slip or Wheel or coil,
Artistry is indelible.
Whereas marks on paper
Or canvas or glaze,
As with pixels or wounds,
Or word or rhyme,
Many remain uninterpreted.
Yet this candle creative, once lit,
Burns in the minds eye,
With an effortless glow, determined.
It is this which fuels the Art.
I recollect from where I sat,
You’re being scratched,
In the room of music.
In volatile memory,
Never lost, even when off.
A new beam is upon me,
It is a beam of light,
And it adds weight too.
How I howl through this ball,
With steady streaky ink.
Moving this pen with delight.
I am for the most time,
Describing lunacy to myself.
In spite of myself,
I have my own image, in my sights.
I have both the cross hairs and a sharp focus.
And being Lunar, I am the one who will
Pull the trigger. . .of myself.
For the moment,
I have a thumb nail over the intervening years,
Pressing tight the pencil against their edge.
This is my only safety.
There is a hollow lilt in my speech.
But still I manage to stem my flow,
This time, with writers cramp.
Fortune has waved me a long farewell.
I have lived my life in dark days.
The dark days of consistent goodbyes.
Now I find I sit most times
With my head all over the pages.
I write with gold leaf of the spoken times.
That’s how guilt has covered my plot.
And I am usually to be found,
Shivering whilst steadying my head
And holding my own hand.
There is still much of life’s silt
But for now this blanket of truth will suffice.
I once dreamt of standing
Against the starkest of contrasts,
More so, than even the blackest of white.
To loom as a particulate does
In the great schemes of grandeur and things.
And now, just as it should be,
I live under the day clouds of despair,
Out of which fall, the dry nails of poetry.
Nails with which to Fix
Nothing to nowhere.
But who else but me can say
Whether I have ever nailed it?
Not falling long enough to rust,
They are poems describing
That which represents the writing off
Of a dream or a small occurrence,
And a life lived veneer shallow and thinly.