Shadows

I own my shadow

thank you Dr Jung

it’s always been there

companion and jailor

adversary and friend

some nameless arseholes

have suggested that I’m morbid

in my preoccupations

but I don’t need the remedy

just the culture

I exercise my shadow

with brisk forays into verse

our stories are shadows

they follow us around

the proverbial bad penny

or a lousy streak of luck

you can’t shake them

with drink and drugs

but you might lose

the plot in trying

this life will kill you

it’ll make or break you

I was forged in adversity

that’s true of everyone

that I’ve ever known

each had burdens to bear

and every burden borne

had a story of its own

.

The day I died

when I called out
you couldn’t hear
I turned to talk
but you weren’t there
you left the works
but took the gear
.
how I wept
how I cried
I sent for a priest
but none arrived
things were rough
the day I died
.

Far away

more haste – less speed
the minutes s t r e t c h out
racked in terrible instance
tortured in the passing
the throbbing mechanism
of desire
the beatings of fleshy drums
pulse off into nowhere
on and on
the cycle persists
the dim morning
cold grey light
seeping gently in
through empty windows
framing the silence
with spine chill –
and frozen sap
another day of coffin nails
and cellophane smiles
of sleeping lovers
far away in time
.

Ageing

Old man, his hands look dead. His neck is creased like a scrotum. His eyes are milky blue. He looks right into me for a second and something flickers and disappears. He’s moved on – moved within to some ancient memory that seems more real than I. Age draws the mind inward until we live on memories. The world at large loses its allure. The world gave up on the old man long before he deserted the world.

Will I grow old I wonder, real old I mean? Will I live long enough to grow raven’s claws and a purple veiny beak? I can just about imagine losing my marbles and retreating into my yesterdays. Becoming some drooling old fart sitting in my own shit. I’m terrified of that. Not having my faculties, not even knowing what kind of hell I’m living in.

Maybe I’ll get lucky and die before that ever happens. Maybe I’ll get luckier still and live to a ripe old age with my mind intact. Either way, I don’t relish the prospect of aging, but there is little I can do to negate the process – short of suicide and that is an even bleaker prospect.

.

Funeral

Heavy industrial gloom
Settled like a mantle of black ash
On my old hometown
The crushing weight of sanity
Cast an oppressive pall
Over the grimy rooftops
I had to prise open his coffin lid
To ascertain the cause of death
They say he jumped
But he was pushed
No-one ever jumps
They are all pushed
We lifted him from his coffin
And left him in the open air
Where the crows could get at his flesh
Where the sun could bleach his bones
And the wind could caress his carcass 
While the rain poured down 
On my old hometown