Morning

Your morning soul is drenched in caffeine

And stained red with wine. Solemn cold and the grey sky –

A canvas for the motorised symphony of the streets.

And you sigh, turn on your phone, and watch the news on the TV

While you count the coins in your hand. You are sure that this

Will be a good day.

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St Enodoc Church

The wind whipped the sands.

The sky was grey and as we came to the café

It began to rain. We took tea under the cover.

The rain stopped, we found the footpath

That led to the open greenspace – the golf course,

The sandy paths, the long grass. The sun was starting

To burn through the tough clouds. We approached

Nearer to our destination. I could see the steeple.

One more path led us to the site of the 12th century chapel:

‘St Enodoc Church’. The black headstone of Betjeman

Stood proud and gleaming. We sat on the bench

Next to him and looked out on the perfect blue sky

And white wandering clouds, the long green fields of

Padstow opposite and the wide free sea. I looked, in the heat

And the breeze, for the oldest grave. One weathered and worn

Told of a man born in 1700, died aged 100 in 1800.

This is not the Nouvelle Vague

You looked like you were about

To smoke until I remembered

You don’t but if you did you would

Look like Jean Seberg or Anna Karina

Or another French icon because

All the fashionable icons are French.

I’m not saying I’m Godard or Truffaut

But I’m definitely saying that I’m the artist.

Although, I don’t see an uprising sprouting

In Albert Square next to the library,

Even if it’s quasi Roman design sparks

Renaissance aspirations. Such revolutionaries

Would be quietly herded into the Costa nearby

Where they can watch the statues not move.

I got off track: the scene opens with a shot

Of the Eiffel Tower.

More than Friends

We were more than just friends

We were scorpions with tails linked.

We were venom spilled and mixed.

 

Our reclusive bodies

Made reputations of our souls.

 

We mingled in the air like smoke

And stood out like blue.

We were the belladonna in the ruins,

We were the heroin in the river.

 

We lay side by side,

And locked each other in thought.

It wasn’t long

Before our passion burned

And disappeared like paper.

Nostalgia

I’m a sucker for nostalgia

It makes me cry in defiance

Of my age; I don’t need to be

How others feel they should be,

Instead I can lie to the world

With eyes uncaring and tired.

Childhood… man –

It was good while it lasted

And I’ll be damned if I don’t

Make it last forever.

Glitterati

Like a deplorable trail of smoke

From the final cigarette of a bum

Who had it all and then lost it all,

You fade into the air and are forgotten.

 

Your body falls through shadows

Like hollow bones in a grave,

But you are lost, drunk and unfeeling

And you let the ether claim you.

 

Then like a lover expectant

Lying on an unmade bed with red sheets,

You try to sleep but your mind is in oil

And your eyes see angels.

 

You never woke, you never slept.

Like a cut out headline you imprint then decay,

Leaving only remnants of a burnt page

Dancing in the lost space of a man’s mind.

 

Champagne, no name, never to age,

Your eyes say they have seen it all

But you shiver at the sight of the poor

And your feet bleed as you dance.

 

Do not fool with the glitterati of the city.

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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