God bless the working Sunday
like an unbroken white noise
mostly muted
a sea still rolling hard
without rain or storm
heavy traffic roaring somewhere else
everything at half capacity
our dear leaders
having tried to utilise the old holy day
have not found it in themselves
to follow through
only the mad are out
from the bar across the road
some sport is being viewed
but I am at work.
Somebody’s row boat had escaped,
a gaudy plastic thing
usually found threatening to capsize
under it’s misapplication by children
annoying everyone else on the duck pond,
surfing splendidly over the waves
unmanned and unordered
towards sunset and storm clouds.
What an adventure it would be
to have climbed aboard.
The arcade, neon beast
is snoozing by the sea,
shifting lightly while the weeks refugees
tickle lightly around it
looking for some crumbs
to keep the consensus fuelled,
a hover craft takes off
but doesn’t disturb.
It smells dank,
matted with the humidity
in need a good groom
ageing rapidly but still kicking
with light and raucous songs
rumbling quietly on the beach
permitting final visitors of the day
still ready for the summer season.
She’s got twelve different brands on her
lace over dark stocking under bright boots
no phone or logo headphones to hand
wandering with the breeze
in the rare sun of British summer
everything pulled on unfashionably
but at pressures and angels to suit her.
He’s got the workers’ uniform on
a bright, cheap, ready to go zip-up
adorned with mysterious runes
marching rapidly down the other street
ear-piece winking at the sun
loose trousers, well used trainers
everything battered by custom labour.
There’s a reflection on the door
some tired gentlemen with flustered hair
being devoured by a thin black coat
with buttons making threats to jump
hair grumbling against his beard
jeans long worn and roughed into fashion
everybody dressed messy, as life is.
I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m all melancholia,
I’m hepped up on something I don’t know
I’m stressed, I’m unfulfilled, I’ve had enough,
I’m chasing pastels of particular brand
around my own head as I hover
deeper into the night, all done
with a warm bed waiting
and the sense of murder hanging off me,
thinking of the knife in my kitchen drawer
and the soft supple skin I’m swaddled in
with all the family and tutors and doctors
hearing me out and telling me how well I’m doing,
I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m all melancholia
I’m angry at myself, I’m sad by myself
I’m either brave or a coward, I can’t tell
I can’t work this out,
it’s late and my bed is right there
but I just can’t fit the lid on the day yet.
Heaven’s no good for misfits
people who see too much
and have seen,
furrowed brows and grey scowls
making their way past shop fronts
looking for a few minutes distraction
from the spluttering phlegm
being sprayed at them from newspapers
and those whose third eyes have been seared shut
expecting better to happen for them.
Great walls are a blunt social order
shelter is in the toil of the endless fields
rolling beneath a sun that never sets
but it’s not all work
lovers moan here among the wheat
children scrapping over thrones of dirty rocks
there are no more distractions
it’s freer toil
the blind have been walled away
misfits left alone to see each other.
His mind is filled with biscuit crumbs
picking over with growing outrage
the debris left by other lifeforms
as the mold in his own world spread
consuming the oxygen
until the whole room is a gross vacuum
in which nothing new can be birthed.
Soon he will devour himself
the minutia of cleanliness
finally overcome by terrible whole reality
disposal of loose cereal flakes not enough
to turn the tide of shit pouring into his mouth
as he sleeps heavy
under a window begging to be opened.
I want a fountain of beer,
a pool of dark trickling liquor
splashing merrily in my kitchen
not to drink
my mind doesn’t stomach the old drug
any more
just to watch and to smell
the accumulated joy of brewers
preparing for royal feasts and college parties
the flavour of merry dares and romantic gambits
running through my home
for me to watch and smell
sipping my evening coffee.
There are knives in my belly
in my hair
waiting in ever drawer in the house
falling out of the pockets
of every single coat I own
in hand and under foot
jutting out of every wall
lining every street corner
and narrow door
knives from my shower
spears poking out of my food
every animal and child and their owners
coming towards me with flashing cleavers
I call for help and there’s a saws in the telephone
it’s a world of blades and I am not made of metal
get me home
before the rain of hatchets comes again.
Gaudy visions on mute at 4am
smiles hard selling cut price office furniture
scored by the rain at the window,
camomile tea steaming contemplatively
on the desk next to a copy of Persepolis
left open and unfinished at a profound moment,
no work required until the afternoon
the night slipping through
unperturbed.
