Music It Is

In Weatherspoon’s
Joe is alone
His friends have decided not to join him
He sits beside the jukebox

A cold beer
A warm cigarette
A rough-cut shirt
His best biker’s leather jacket

His sharp-cut leather boots
His extravagant belt
With buckles, studs, and trophies
Youth in all of its glory

Fearless, that is until...

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New Winners

Joe thought otherwise
The pub is dead
Just like the chapel is dead
The church is no longer the lifeblood
Or the focus of the community
The church is now devoid of ordinary folk
No more local festivals
No more ever-caring parishioners
Yet still the cold moves in on the church
As so too do the familiar delusions

But Joe’s precious time
Right now
Was away from his cold village
Although it was not
Not too too far away
He walked in the filtered sunlit woods
Wandered aside the splashing streams
He loved the noise of life’s quiet places
He had a pixies touch on the footpaths
He stroked the stone walls

Just as if they were female sculptures
OK there were no longer any potato fields...

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Old Losers

You know the kids today, they are lost
They have lost their way
It was so different in our day

You can almost hear the words rise
From the gathered throng
Outside of the chapel:

Our church
Or to be precise our chapel
It was a lovely building

A Welsh slate roof
Slate from the valleys no wonder...

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Cellar Talk

This bloody cellar
This dammed
Cold, same-old
House

This bloody village
This hopeless landscape
This endless place
Of stone, and lime

Joe took no satisfaction
From knowing...

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Home

The cellar was the whitest room in the house
Walls covered in a lime-wash
Walls with a cover that shone

The shine in the lime-wash
Came from its bond
A bond made from animal flesh

It is flesh then...

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