The Iron Door
Once I ended up in a police cell
over a pair of big breasts:
‘If you go collect this script,
I’ll show you my tits and I’ll let
you
handle them for a few moments’
I snatched the paper and
handed over the forged
prescription, five minutes later
as I sat waiting in the
pharmacy I was arrested by 2
plain-clothed police officers:
I said nothing to them,
within an hour the cries and
screams of Claire cut through
the holding-cells:
‘You still owe me!’ I shouted
through the open hatch of
the iron door:
‘Fuck you!’ she hollered
back before sitting down
and weeping for her mama
to come and collect her:
I had called a friend for help
but she was too fucked-up,
after a few hours I was
released:
later Claire and I were given
a year’s probation and I
looked across the court room
at Claire and her breasts,
and man, I thought,
I’d do the same again,
no questions.
The Punk Rock Kitchen
On the way home for a
stay-over, my twin, 5 year
old granddaughter’s
say the music grandpa
likes is boring and
sounds all the same:
my wife explains some
of classical music,
but it cuts no ice: boring:
later I switch the
radio off and play,
full volume, the Pistols
‘Anarchy in the UK’
and begin leaping
around the kitchen
screaming along and
pulling ugly faces:
they look at me with
disbelief, trying to
make sense of it
but they can’t:
they run to nanny
and tell her the music
scares them and makes
grandpa dance silly:
‘punk is dead’
maybe, but today,
it lived again
briefly in
my kitchen.
The Sinking
I have drowned in
your presence,
sunk way below
where you can
see me,
illuminating
flares and the
choirs of ghosts
wrap around me
like newspaper
headlines of
tragedy
but I know I’ll
surface in your
eyes when they
leak tears and
the sun gives up
for the moon.
When The Gig Is Up
When the gig is up
you can’t look the
other way,
continuously
feeling that you’re
fucked by bad
luck:
from every scene
no matter how
tragic or sombre
there is always
light,
there is no right
or wrong in
living
but survival brings
divisions and
treachery: the
secret of life is
knowing when to
stop, be a breeze
and travel freely,
express yourself
honestly,
this is not easy,
it can hurt others,
don’t be afraid,
be joyful,
move forward and
embrace what
is found.
Hand It Over
Give me your madness,
your secrets,
your laughter and sorrow,
give me your shadow,
your nightmares and
your sweetest
moments:
I can’t offer much
in return
but I can feel,
listen and try to
understand
who and what
you are
and you can do
the same:
let’s begin again
with a blank,
with space
to fill with truth.
