Hangdog in my brow, eyes and soul (body)
Hangdog in my bones, my muscles, my legs,
Caught in between currents at sea
in a boat in a whirlpool
Vultures cry overhead
I am addicted to my bed
Suffering withdrawal I lie out
Calamities are calling
But I am deaf
I am focussed, bread
dead. Yet I breathe
and as I write this feel
something other. Personal,
Social, Public, personal,
persona, persona non grata.
Hangdog in my wrist, in my fist
fingers, hand, eyes, brow.
Hangdog has got me.
Will not let me go.
Stiff, unyielding, not alive
not dead. Not doll, not lead.
The ache in my back, kidneys
migrating, pain shock.
paracetamol, doors locked.
Personal shame, public blame
undying flame, stupid game.
Master and slave, dog and hangdog
winner and loser, alone but not alone
heart-tugging, souls shrugging
personal shame. It’s the name of the game
we play in life, who is up, who is next, who is out.
Fingers curl around my heart
and squeeze and shove. moving muscle
moving me from alone to convalesced.
Norton knows of my pain and on the
great plains I am next to Saffran Grass dead and
rotting already gone, yet at home I live, on.
The sounds from without punch a lonely
beat on the house on the street where
people shall meet and greet and glower and
soap and shower in full view of everyone.
My lamp glows steadfastly, its LED’s
unthinking, unaware of the milling around
of folk and their stories that bear heavily
like wild animals exploring man’s world.
I can hear the waves rushing in off the sea
I don’t know but to me this is poetry
Its like everyone is here from 1993
In the air is a poem carrying some psyence fiction
and in my throat a sound, like a moan but more guttural like a gorilla
Children of the age from Landon town in pink wearing a frown upside down
Marshmallows by the fire and suddenly its time! So soon. Back to my room.
And it’s the Seventies again tonite. Come on Eileen! Come on! We’re having fun.
David Bowie on a yacht asking me could it be so much fun. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Yes I can grab your gun we’re going for a run into town to see what’s going down
Hello, Titch, I’ve got a dog named Mitch back at home but here I’m all alone…
Alone in despair but I don’t care. I think I’m destined for better things.
What rhymes with this mote on my finger? Better things/ Golden Rings
Suddenly I’m ten again and the world seems to be very large. I play in a corner, alone.
Are you one of them? Or are you one of us? to which the only answer can be – I think I’m one of me.
Speedway on the track, no time for looking back into a grey haze on duvet days.
Another false dawn comes as no surprise to my eyes, my eyes, my eyes come as no surprise.
And blink and count back from ten. Then come looking for us.