Maybe

If only I could stop looking for
more then the length of Bob Dylan's
"If You See Her, Say Hello."
How nice would a distraction be,
like a marathon of Cary Grant or
Bogart films playing against the
back of my eyelids.
Maybe I could wake up and only
see the lines from "The Sun Also Rises."
Then I could stop worrying about
running into you every time
I open my eyes.
Maybe.

Untitled #6

Calm as brush strokes
she disregarded
every single thing
I said.

Dovehouse Green

Pigeons scrounging.
Rye, birdseed,
concrete, grass.
Pillar for the fallen
used as a toilet
by a small Boxer
who chases away
the birds.
Rolling on the lawn,
neglecting his stick,
and master.
Jumping on walkers.
Smudging books.
Soiling jeans.
As happy as
can be.

London Pt. 2

It's coffee and a muffin
down on Fleet Street
at eleven in the morning.
Out of place amongst
the slim fit charcoal
suits that normally
take up residence.
It's hearing Farsee
on the nineteen,
trying to get to
Piccadilly on time,
stuck in traffic
in Holborn.
It's a lady having
a row with
a TFL official all
because the Victoria
is shut down for
the weekend.
Stuck north of
Highbury, forced to
walk all the way
from Arsenal.
It's a middle aged
woman, eyes closed,
singing with Elton,
for Diana.
A grown man putting
down his Carling and
taking notice of a tribute.
It's the American cashier
at Starbucks. The Indian
barrista, Spanish
housekeeper, and
Australian guest.
It's the Queen,
the busker,
Chinatown,
and St. Pauls.
All completely different.
All perfectly at home.

30/6/07

It's bourbon and whiskey
from old oaken barrels,
sitting next to a large
framed man with a
long stemmed pipe.

In, out.
In, out.

The smoke billows
into the air with
the aroma of cherries
and old bathrooms.
The spirits swirl
in the glass as he
slowly sips away.

Up, down.
Up, down.

It's eleven thirty.
Not much time.
Pack it again
then say goodbye.

In, out.
In, out.

The smoke has gone
the way off the buffalo.

On Slowly Dying, Voluntarily

O' troubled soul.
Lost amidst the wars
and frivolities of
post-modern America.
Searching for truth
in a world uncertain,
drunk on desperation.

O' wounded heart,
crimson from battle.
Clinging to a life
that isn't yours.
Clutching swords,
sharp enough to
scar the wielder.
Where is your
battle song?
The sweet melody
of dirges, victory
tunes, too far gone
to be remembered.

O' trifled spirit,
where is your love?
Sick from war
and famine, longing
for a simpler life.
Breathe in deep,
feel emptiness
in your stomach,
tangible as cancer

Is this all you have left?
Or shall you stand up,
refuse to be
driven back by
mere arrows?