Motorway Poem

I was under no illusions as we escaped the city

Watching the night and lost in the wisps of live music.

I thought of the Jetstream of the 60’s dream

A concrete moment in 1967 that cracked by December

When flats grew cold and the hippies froze

Then the dream deferred leapt into the sordid 90’s

When cockroach parliamentarians were as drunk as Withnail

And I saw the final remnants of peace and love in

The cocaine afterglow of cool Britannia

With flags plastered on champagne skin

And close fitting ribcages. I snapped from my remembrances

And naïve theorizing as the motorway lights blinded me

And I grasped my knees in fear thinking

‘Oh god’ but father began to harmonize as I considered

The majesty and mechanics of Nick Drakes right hand

Whispering William Blake innocence in the haze of Jane in autumn.

No need for obsolete baroque impersonations

The fashions of a company bleed into the rebellion

Streaming through the veins of psychedelic teens

Who wear bellbottom jeans to compensate for lack of personality

Could I borrow something as simple as a cigarette?

A line of code or a coda in the delicate prayer of jazz?

Or can I weave words into days, hours into ribbons,

Dresses into snow. Sudden stops. Can’t see

The traffic cones five feet in front of me

Sudden burst, could cold thought

Be any cheaper in city brains?

False nihilism, dust on wooden floors

A disease tended to with ennui

And nobody stops to care.

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City Walk

I can walk sentimental streets

Without being ashamed of my smile,

Yes, I can walk with pride

At my being, at my being alive.

The marriage of the breeze with

The perfumes of flowers growing

In between concrete scars

And the gasoline from passing cars

Lingers thoughtlessly in the air.

Still I look down at my steps

Going forward, never missing a beat.

I am in the city now, and it is full,

It never feels constrictive or contrived

No matter how many ads plague the skyline

They are just part of the feature.

My sentimental street is another river to the sea,

A free and open society.

 

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Music

Would you improvise with me?

It could be a simple symphony,

A cacophony of stars in melted blue,

Swirling winds and moonlight too,

Shades of night, a pallet in our hands

Complex melodies like falling grains of sand,

Thick like smoke, will you hold this tune?

That weaves around the lonely room,

Fingers deep in a cascade of champagne

Waterfall, bright, diamond cold rain.

Would your piano play classical?

Or would it fall into the fantastical,

On its knees into a dream that we both feel

One we could keep but never make real,

Is that not what music is for?

An ephemeral, erotic, opening of the dawn,

Why the feminine notes float I do not know

But I know they cause no ripples to grow

And spread over your silver trading rivers,

Ships, golden as a waltz, send shivers

Down the wire spines that move as we move

In this inferno, this ballroom of truth.

I hold the notion that it is quiet now,

Listen with me, silently, it is quiet now.