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Somebody is born, somebody dies

There will be consequences to the plans

we made, there always are;

Seems like somebody gets hurt every time

somebody else stands up tall.

The day arranges its winners and losers like

items at a Greek bazaar,

Somebody’s horse will come from nowhere

to triumph, and somebody’s will fall.

The white moon tonight, the clouds distracted,

They shuffle the light, they dish out

the atmospherics with flair.

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some real,

some parts merely acted,

You light a match and see my look of terror

illuminated in its glare.

There will be lasting damage when this is over,

there are always losers;

You think something is history, then years

later stumble upon its ill effects.

The day peoples its alley with the weary

echoes of dying substance abusers,

Somebody will stand on the bridge in

uniform, and somebody will scrub the decks.

The sharp wind tonight, the air unscented,

It cashes in on the uncertainty, allows autumn

to take the blame,

Somebody is born, somebody dies, some

forgotten, some long lamented,

You strike a match and see my look of disbelief

appear briefly by its flame.

Days and nights stand equally on guard

before us,

Each longer than the last, each armed.

We will defeat each one, but it will be

hard for us.

Their hearts are of darkness,

their doors alarmed.

There will be casualties once the fighting’s

ended, trust me;

Seems like somebody catches an aeroplane

every time somebody else lands;

The day’s credentials don’t look authentic but

I guess they must be;

Someone will triumph in the centre circle,

and someone will sit in the stands.

The sirens tonight, their message amended,

From a single incident to news of society’s

explosive decline,

Somebody is born, somebody dies,

some alone, some warmly befriended,

You’ve used your last match but I can see

your sadness, even if you can’t see mine.

I snorted a line of poetry

I snorted a line of poetry, it felt good.

Knowing it’s illegal felt even better.

Well, not illegal but misunderstood,

Like an inkpen, like a handwritten letter.

The cops raided my writer’s meet,

Piled like savages into the coffee shop,

Their wild-eyed fury kind of sweet,

A textbook game of good cop/wistful cop.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

What I believe in, my values, my schtick.

Might need a priest hole under my floor,

The persecution in the air’s so thick.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore, compadres, I’m on a list.

I could tear my trousers like David Banner,

But the new world would resist.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

Leave us to be disillusioned in peace.

We can drink wine and complain

about the weather,

Argue about the best songs from Grease.

I inhaled a Shakespeare sonnet, what a buzz.

Knowing the kids would yawn buzzed bigger.

It’s funny feeling the thing Will does,

Defining the truth of us, sketching our figure.

The council stopped my poetry reading,

I was on a street, you see, without a permit,

They don’t like old boys like me succeeding,

Not in public, but okay as a hermit.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

You mustn’t carry me or intend to supply.

Might need one of those cameras on my door,

Next time the fashion police swing by.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore it isn’t, I’m condemned.

I appear to represent a significant spanner

In their plan, which we’ll hear in the end.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

Leave us alone in our room to be proved right.

Let us slag off the forecasters and

predict the weather,

And reminisce about TV on Saturday night.

Times change, that’s okay, but we should

not need to,

Not if we don’t want to, who’s to say we must?

Deconstructing ourselves wasn’t something

we agreed to,

You’ll respect us more for it, once we’re dust.

I injected a gram of Ulysses, could’ve been

coke.

Knowing coke’s much cooler was the hit.

They recommended cannabis but I don’t

smoke.

Joyce don’t make me cough like that other shit.

Health and safety paid me a door knock,

Wanted an inventory of my library books,

Seized two Brontes and a first edition

Brighton Rock.

A crack den next door and we’re the crooks.

I’m a banned substance in 2024,

I’m mainlining literature, they don’t approve.

For neighbourhood bookworms who

want to score,

My place is basically the Louvre.

This used to be my world, my manor,

Not anymore, ladies, I’m cancelled, closed.

Exceeding my literary limit I set off

their scanner,

They came for me while I dozed.

Come, let’s be disappointed together,

We’ll read our books out on the fire escape,

At heights unwuthering, the harebells

and the heather

Can be our secrets, while the others vape.

Signs of life

Hope was virtually gone.

The searchers knew the look.

Sixteen months on,

They had exhausted the book.

Their faces smeared with grime,

Their lungs clogged with dust.

Searching all this time,

Because they could, because they must.

Surely no survivors now

From 2020’s sudden collapse.

Every stone upturned, and how,

Light shone in smallest gaps.

Their helmets pushed right back,

Their gloves at last removed,

Each torch replaced in rack,

Each worst fear finally proved.

Sixteen months later,

After everything they’d done,

They contemplate the crater

That once was 2021.

Time to call it quits,

Every duty has been done.

Let it rest where it sits,

The past sets with the sun.

Then the door slams back,

Thermal team has news.

Faces scarred and black,

Fresh blood on their shoes.

Everyone on their feet,

Scattering floral shrines.

A trace of body heat,

The tiny fragile signs

Of life.

We must fly

Ahead of us a long haul, a year of distance,

In the cockpit our pre-flight checks complete.

Out of the wind, the path of least resistance,

We plot another year strapped in this seat.

We’ve logged the flightplan, done the

cross-check,

We have enough cunning to cover the

skills we lack.

This is 2018, seen from the flightdeck,

Call ground on 121.9, permission to push back.

Ahead of us hard days, nights of desperation,

The curvature of the Earth awaits us out there.

From the year’s first light to its moment

of cessation,

We’ll roll with the sun behind us, impervious

to its glare.

We’ve locked down the hatches, begun to taxi,

All we know about 2018 is where it will start.

Equipped with everything but the facts we

call the tower on 118.5, permission to depart.

Ahead of us the mountains and the oceans,

Every day a different routing, each night

another vector.

Unaware of the crosswinds, indifferent to

their motions,

We watch the readout on our lightning

detector.

We’ve passed V1, rotate, V2 and positive climb,

Our stick is back, excuse us, we must fly.

All these beacons, we’ve passed them

time after time,

Call departure on 121.85, this is their sky.

Ahead of us the ebb and flow of familiar

seasons,

The autopilot won’t help us, we are

on our own.

We expect some turbulence, and there may be

other reasons

to question the validity of having flown.

Until we switch down from this cruise and

start descending

We must stay focused, the stick held tight

in our hand.

Until December, when we see that familiar

river bending,

And call the tower on 118.5, permission to land.

Under a Simpsons sky

She’s so flagrant, she tosses coins in the cup

of every vagrant, she’s on the way up,

She’s so fragrant, she’s got a poodle-cross pup,

You can’t embarrass her.

In her short life she’s never known grief,

Never sought strife, never beggared belief,

She’s a fraught wife, but her husband’s a thief

who likes to harass her.

Come on down, Lisa baby, tell me the truth,

Is this how you saw it, when you were a youth?

Is this what you hoped for, when we were both young,

you and I?

An inanimate life

Under a Simpsons sky.

He’s a chancer, he’s always chasing the deal

But gets no answer, he doesn’t care how you feel,

She was a dancer, but the dream wasn’t real,

That’s how he’d spin it.

As he views it, she’s his cook and his whore,

He’ll abuse it, like he abuses the law,

She can’t defuse it, it’s an unending war,

She can’t win it.

But fess up, Lisa baby, tell me your news,

Is this what you dreamed of, as a schoolgirl in Loos?

Is this what you imagined when we were both free,

you and I?

An accidental life

Under a Simpsons sky.

Not all the skies are Simpsons,

Not all the stories make you laugh,

Some of the skies make you think of the Road Not Taken,

And make you wonder about that other path.

We can’t fix things, we’re always victims of hope,

We play our six-strings, it helps us to cope,

We try to mix things, but simply fashion the rope

to make a noose with.

She’s so forlorn now, but she still doesn’t bend

to the storm now, that’s portending her end,

She stays warm now, and prays for a friend

to hang loose with.

Strike it up, Lisa baby, let out your tears,

Is this what you’ve been leading to, all of these years?

Is this why you left me, is this why there’s no you and I?

A wasted life

Under a Simpsons sky.