Head of house

House without doors, house without windows

House with no one inside or out

House, made of thorns, a protection of sorts

Or a suggestion

That home is all we have to cling to

Or that home is all we have

In our struggle to get away

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Heads of state

The road sign says No horse racing on the carriageway

A good job on that day; for you were past racing

Your racing days were over

All your days were over

It was the first time that I had seen a glass and crystal coffin carriage

Horse drawn, groomed for the occasion

You would have liked the sign Road closed for a funeral procession

Hundreds, maybe thousands of well wishers

Stand back, make way, by notices they are instructed

The sun shone then as the sun shines now - outside the gallery

Inside, a casket: Lacrymatory - The Jerpoint kick-starts the memory

Of someone I never ever knew

Though I know now, my chasing days too are almost over

All of those days are almost over

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RIP

Take the stairway

Three floors below zero

Four metres of concrete

Walk along the corridor

Five doubts of past depressions

Six days of blackened sun

Turn, in step

Seven twisted corrugations

Eight minds, stolen or shattered

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Ripples

Three floors below zero, four metres of reinforced concrete

Carried in cages over cavernous excavations

Or in tunnels, pure of artificial light

Boulders blasted with dynamite explosives

Underworlds that underscore, they symbolise symbolic art

Doubt

Descent

Disappearance

Dust

Disfigured man

Duress

Distrust

Water, darkened by the slowly blackened sun

On the sands twisted corrugations minds are shattered or stolen

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Lost at sea

Mischievous to leave so much to the imagination

The sun on the fenlands was always joyous

And then

Wars happen everywhere don’t they?

People lose their minds or have their minds

Taken away

Manipulated by overt forces that might…

No I don’t expect so

Good intentions seem so far away now

Over the grey horizon from where you

Half returned

From where innocent men don’t return at all

Unless by some stroke of luck

Their naivety helps them choose to avoid engagement

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Strangers

Don’t ask me next time, ok? Find someone else to do your…

Hey! Are you listening? How can you laugh at such a time

Always conniving those two

You wouldn’t wonder what they’ve…

And to their own, if I’m not mistaken

You owe me remember

Always available you said, now listen to you

They let the others carry their burden

Hunched shoulders; hunchback I shouldn’t wonder

It’s worry that does it, better not to know

You are right

It is better not ever to know

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Return

I took the quiet road, out over the hayrack, past the derelict cottages along Suburbia way. The library was empty, the books all turned to dust. Only the little ones understood, understood enough, still to play.

The bells are silent

Still; still hanging but silent

Their ropes are worn thin with worry

Those last few years were ever busy

Old stones grow older with the rain

Thank heavens for the seasons

The waters edge is endless

Without salt or sand to hold back the forces of wind and sun

Without salt or sand to hold up the heavier weights of life

With nowhere to fly to, nor new life to deliver, our job here is done. Still the cases might as well be unloaded; the quiet road is subsided, even the cart tracks have fallen. We ought though to stay around. No one must ever know.

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Complicit

It isn't right, you know that don't you

Look, not so loud - but go on, tell me, who pulled the trigger?

And what did he do anyway, to bring such disgrace to bear

It had to be, he was beyond reproach

Too big, for his own, and his brothers boots

Too full of himself, to even half way understand

Keep your head down, stay quiet; do not get involved or embroiled

Walk out to the waters edge; but go no further

The sulphurous sun, might once more burn your wet webbed feet

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Respite

Into the grey sky, without a colour for guidance

Or differentiation beyond the lines of convergence

That began in the tiles under my feet

And travelled under the tired toes of the refugee

As he ambled up and down; until the time to go

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To become a painter

Angel du Nord

All over the papers

All over the skyline

The Blind Light of confusion

Drips from my brow

That these words

Are the headline story

Is your transient momentous reward

Nine years

Six alone in preparation

Watching the light

Through the seasons

Watching

Cows crossing the Lys

That these words

Caught the tearful story

Is your lasting posthumous reward

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Beware

Dubois, perhaps of De Beauvoir

Shadows; encounters that play with light

Travellers of the world unite as fragments

In the underground concrete departments

Be aware

Meet my friend; he is the one with the knife

Who desires, due to the affair with his wife

To end your life

Sad to have descended

The evening's gaiety upended

Anger lies beside the selfless bonds of consolation

As we delve into your darker nation

Ambient explanations to still the ruffled mind

Silent conversations to view the uneasy interior

Hazily ordained deportations cram the adventurer

Less plain

The particular exploitations to hustle

The all alone, after dark street walker

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Lumière

This is a passing visit - just time to catch up

Refreshment for myself; incommunicado

I'll sit awhile, wander about, and listen to the music

Think of the fountains, outside in the sunshine

Settle in this cool place, with the voices, with the dust

Settle in this cool place, among your pictures

I will settle with trust

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