Rock And Roll
An old man sits ranting
The world is full of madness, masquerading as normal
what is normal?
the ability to appear upright whilst falling, I believe
Here, the manual
Being a rock prevents you from falling, but when you start to fall
you cannot cling to yourself. Should you try, you only fall faster.
It is the fate of the falling rock.
Really, it is inside that we die first, he says, spittle dribbling down his undershirt
then the rest follows - slowly, determinedly
Death resides in my heart, he thumps his chest
it is the nearness of it that comforts me
at peace in solitude
and a rock
I hurt no one
but everyone gets a shot at me
I unroll myself at the feet of the careless
the careless, he cries; the world’s loss of love, care, respect!
it is that which pains me
thus when I am alone I am at peace
Solitude I choose; I choose willingly
and revel in it
it gives me freedom, independence
from reliance on fulfilment from others
who are incapable
and of those there are many
(derisively) The hollow reeds
Now choose, do choose. He looks me straight in the eye
hollow reed or falling rock?
Writhing march that constricts and chokes
Each waiting beat, each unsettled step
Another second gone out of reach
Still the blind, bovine hope remains,
Flickering in stubborn stuttering
Not desired. All I wants the cool
Dark, and that these bloodied feelings
Out of my heart. I wasn’t one for
Self doubt, self-immolation, yet it
With “Loving your profile”
It began, and
with this deadening
silence it ends.
I lie, awake, and alone,
And turn on the radio.
Just to hear, a single voice
Thats drifting out to me
I’d cry if you could hear,
I’d cry if you could see
But at “1.2 miles away”,
So close so far,
There’s as yet no relief for me.
“A classic here from the King”
And, quietly buzzing,
a message from her
- I think you are lovely but..
I get so lonely, baby, I get so lonely,
yeah I get so lonely I could die
You kept it in your drum
to weigh it down although
you moaned it was too light.
You replaced it with a fleece
chucked it at me, the shadow girl
always waiting to help you
pack up your kit. Move on.
A plain grey T-shirt from Next,
oversized, not my sort of thing
but I’d had it thirty years,
the softest garment
I’ve ever owned, comfort
to a T.
I’ve exposed all my selves
that once wore it - rippled
with sun-oil on holiday;
bleeding and afraid; raw;
I wore it as a nightshirt
the day you proposed, then again
the night when you moved on.
Your mother says you’ve made it
with your band, in Poland.
I should have stitched
its rip, not let it worsen
thinking it was time
to let go.