It wasn’t the overdose
It was the vomit
that killed him
Drowning in vomit
for the beautiful
And he was beautiful
in so many ways
So when I think of him
As I often do
And say a wee prayer
I know the stuff is poison, but I neck it anyway. It’s a psychic shield against the vicissitudes of strife. What a happy delusion to carry around in my head. A soft and fuzzy lie I like to bathe in. Get me to my bed where I can adopt my cloak of dreams. I don’t care what shape the world is in – I don’t want it banging on my door 24/7. There’s a place I lay my head where I get the peace that grants me immunity from the combine.
What’s in a man’s blood that he offers himself for a slave? Is it some pernicious form of anaemia which thins him out and bleeds him sallow? Is it the herbivore instinct of curtain twitching quislings who endure a life of vicarious pleasures and shared disappointments? I’ve had to turn my back on the gut churning spectacle. The whole scene and its protagonists sicken me to my bones. I’m happy on the outside of that shit – even if the isolation sometimes drags me down. The undertow is strong in these latitudes and men have been known to drown in sentimentality. I have a cup for such occasions and it brims with heavy liquor.
She gave me everything
She gave me all her hopes and dreams
She shared all her crazy schemes
With her little girl lost routine
Yes, she gave me everything
Looking back it seems
I’d soon exhausted all those dreams
She still danced on my string
But I’d had my fill of everything
it’s a heavy arithmetic
that measures out the hours
and subtracts the days of our reckoning
time spent more in hope than knowledge
of a final destination at journey’s end
our rusted factory eyes lack lustre
they’re fixed on horizons far away
where our dreams now live in exile
and yesterday’s tomorrows accumulate decay
is it true what I heard you say?
you made a binding promise
that you would wait forever
for forever and a day
They say that hunger makes thieves of us all and that poverty lurks in slender pay packets. Many of us now live hand to mouth and day to day. Under competent governance poverty would be something to be ashamed of. In a poorly governed country it is wealth we should be ashamed of.
This nation of beggars steals garbage from supermarkets and panhandles for pennies in the high street. We slave on zero hours contracts and abide on the never never. The illusion of luxury piped into our domiciles on subtle carrier waves is enough to buy our good will for men of treasonous intent. While we are punished for the nameless crimes of our fathers - they inherit our souls by means of scientific management.
The inequality between rich and poor is an old and fatal ailment in all nations. Poverty is at the root of revolution, and revolution is the root of change. Revolution is more than the battle for power, it is an act of love, a struggle for the future of our children. The moment is fast approaching – the time for change is now.
I pulled the plug
the dividends were huge
I cut the chord
and learned how to breathe
I renounce violence
in its every dimension
I own my fear
if fear becomes me
When pricked I bleed
When so moved I cry
but celebrate life’s little gifts
In accordance with my temperament
and the precepts of universal love
They’re busing migrants to the border.
These huddled masses
draw their last free breath
beneath the statue of bigotry.
We’re building walls
and digging trenches.
Planting the seeds of our destruction
on our very own doorsteps.
We are as a people suicidal.
They say it’s written in the book.
That the signs are everywhere
if you care enough to look.