All His Life My Brother John Drank and Drank, Now His Death Is Looming
With steady rain since 5:12 am
this might be Asian forest
high in cloudy hill, billiard table green, Sumatran thrush singing;
but for you, a drunk every God-given day since 1969
I say Nebraska, the rain – bastard-son of temperance
haunting you since its timber-hall lay in ash and smoke
and you turned 21, grinning, firing shots in the air,
Sunday’s sermon soot-grey.
The Angel of Death does not need to ride for long, stopping for fireside coffee,
saddling up again shortly after.
In fact, I think he would share a glass with you, professional courtesy,
your shape abrupt and still, rain deriding your leathers,
your horse waiting for the thrush to sing,
James Earl Fraser’s End of the Trail – constrained –
rain-cloak smell
July 17th, 1967
He came in peace and he left in peace Albert Ayler
That sheet of bruising bone
cracks and explodes
like lion-tamer’s snare-drum
in opaque tic-tocs,
that golden arc
blazing.
The porter in Huntington phones me,
I believe every word
Friday, 21:19 p.m.
Butter hues of street lamp
amplify the bush-skies blue.
There are things leaves cannot – will not say,
I will interpret for them
some day –
as I wait
Blue Note, Impulse, Atlantic
will interpret for me
what might happen next among us,
and the grey bags of life
resistant –
the wind-swept finality
of faces
The Style Council
The Jam became
Personae non gratae,
political prisoners of conscience in a small South American state
when Paul Weller assembled the Style Council,
ignoring a howl of wounded blood-crusted spirits
from the summer of ’77 up to Christmas 1982.
There were some sophisti-pop Mods in school in 1983.
I liked the cut of each and every one
and I soon I learned to forget everything slate-roof philosophy
thought me –
like a book slamming shut and a brief encore of dust
playing Beat Surrender down a deserted Tube tunnel…
Dorothy : Cat Lady Extraordinaire of Tesco
Dorothy’s I Have a Dream phases stretch some days from San Diego
to a few yards short of the moon,
from Dublin and Cork to Beijing,
event horizons, I remind myself to label them,
Peter Finch in Network kept himself a little closer to centre-court,
a little less shaky on his aces.
Her rant remains as relevant as a Zimbabwe One Million Dollar note
as the queue today lengthens and tightens in equilibrium,
and carries false hope that air travels at the speed of light;
she fumbles her credit card number,
nails as hygienic as the nemesis of
her namesake from Kansas,
raving in the latest dialects of her agoraphobia.
She usually sniffs her nose on her duffel coat sleeve,
alerts me to check my watch, as sign, signifier,
so the games of etiquette
and her back in my day, men were gentlemen and didn’t rush a lady solo-monologue
can begin,
but today our neuroses sell-out at cut-price in a fire-damage Tesco sale –
Dorothy’s state of the nation address tempting cashiers’ coy, professional smiles,
a few tense coughs from late-comers to planet Tuesday morning.
I say “good-day to you, m’am”,
passing Dorothy
remounting her penny-farthing,
cycling on the pavement as usual.
She’s never removed her cycling helmet when she storms the castle in Tesco
I just notice,
nor the tin foil around it
Remember Everything We See In Spain
Sun-sparkled glint
is a lens my parted knuckle
watches from – horse-riding girls in sullen steps –
but a hidden laugh cracks the tense
divided saddles –
creatures of solar empires are we,
Latin speech,
towns touching stars
scorching days
on mastery of sun,
chalky feet
writing script for wailing land;
no-one will trace a cent of song
when the siroccos drive home,
shopkeepers creeping
from shielded shelves,
the equine angels
we loved so dearly
blurred
in suspended animation;
everything turned blue and white
and oh so hot, hieroglyphs on scalded stone
became my alphabet –
thirst and hunger yearned to be my speech
June 6th, 1968
Bumble-bee chequered cabs
are northward constellations
wrapped in steam rising from sleazy streets,
fire brigade reds like an easel
paints the city’s open-wound –
the life of R.F.K. though, is leaving through
an elevator in the basement,
summer scenes not common-place here, since
American twisted its stomach into a masterpiece of confusion,
broken torsos.
Dust from the angel’s mugshot
sits like ant-eggs
on the dagger’s dry and vulgar lip –
R.F.K. though, is leaving in a meatwagon through the basement,
rosary beads, fireballs of Kodak light,
a murmur juggling the sun’s orbit.
Juan does the bus-run every morning,
sees a solar system shutting down as he twists his broken torso.