A View From The Senate

Lime grey sea of sirens clatters,
Low burnt shores of ancient bone,
Cresting rooves, a Masons' ship,
Which somehow sails on words alone.

Bittersweet rot of pipe tobacco,
Cleave the heady sulphrous air,
Taken by the lying kings;
Faces blackened in despair.

Fjord awash with clanking wrecks,
Towers of a place since drowned,
Upon the ridge the Temple stands,
To hear the sigh of Stour Sound.

Sway the boughs of ashen trees,
Painted with a tarnished gold,
Erase the sweeps of clay borne waves,
Forever destined to be old.

And though the dome is earthen grey,
Silver light bursts from the sky,
Though no man lives through time and tide,
The Masons' crew can never die.

The end of something

Tomorrow you ride the iron horse
through the city of the four winds;
Goodge Street, Russel Square, Bank, Camden.
Clackater-clack it muses to nobody.
From London to the shallow sea.

I hate you for coming so late,
and leaving so early.
Why fourteen hours you selfish fool?
The banks are breaking today,
Why not all the time in the world?

Tyger tyger burned so bright,
Back into your hands, close the loop.
You smile with your brother, cake ablaze.
Let's see what develops.
A gas mask, Soviet uniform. Silver nitrate.

You've gone again. Wagon wheels roll on.
Creme anglaise fraise
In the bottom of a paper cup.
The tea leaves of our generation.
The one's who have forgotten.

Again the iron horse. Again the knotted throat.
Drunkslow slipping sounds of low sand,
engines strain; rich cross channel deisel
You've gone. Nothing. Ever.


Why not all the time in the world?

Mary Jane

I remember you before now,
football, geography, Dextrose.
There was some hope there I suppose,
Broken in three places,
A spiral, a snap, a clean break.

Where are you? The common,
The rafters of the garage,
The milklight soaked hill behind His house,
the stolen spade at your side,
a brainless smile passing your lips?

An old Oasis bottle, grey duck tape,
so crude it makes me smile,
so crude it makes my heart burn,
Dry tears clutch in my throat like the wet smoke
of a home within a home.

Your ambitions passed through this,
all for nought as She would say.
Do they miss you? Do they use you?
Who cares you shrug, awake but asleep,
I have diabetes, I can't help it.


No, my friend, my patient, my comrade. You can't.

KJR

Your God hisses, splutters, like rain on hot tarmac as it roves the 92 band.
The White City cannot control it; its hymn has not tamed it.
Mass may be cancelled today. But it is not yet 7:05.
The Church sellotaped, broken, missing buttons
Sits on the windowsill. Behind cows lumber like lost storm clouds.

We came here for you. UNESCO they said. Lies we thought.
The English Riveria, no such thing.
Slow, pointless, silent, perfect,
Beauty beyond red crags, broken commons, green walls.
But it found you.

We ran, it followed. Simple as.
Foolish I suppose to think it would leave you alone;
or you would leave it alone.
I wish you smoked. It's better for you.
Hard work never killed anybody. Lies we thought.

The paper today, no garden sheds, well good ones at any rate.
God's teeth snap the toasted roof tile.
It is clearer now; sobre, omniscient, omnipresent, benevolent.
Coffee, strong. Cappucino to show we love you,
Mixed with a fork.

Dulled, tired, laughing. No more pairs in this basket.
"There never will be any more pairs mum",
Poirot will find them. News. One. Number. At. A. Time.
"I can't see the TV. My eyes are tired,


I must go to bed."

Hello.

In the words of a good friend of mine:

Dear World,

Hello...

(and so it begins)