Friday, July 10, 2015


The rain that comes from the gloomy sea's grey
At the end of a wasted winter day
Stings like the tears of homeless man,
Salty like a single malt, replete with Islay’s peat,
Laced with traces of seaweed, never sweet.

His head hangs,
A fright-fraught face hidden by a hoodie.
He zips up his high-viz vest
To chase the chill from his chest, cheerless,
And sips from a brown bag,
After drinking a long-necked bottle beerless.

He had a mother,
And possibly also
A father
For twenty minutes or so,
When what passed for love,
Spurted from hormones set to soar,
Splashing into the fields of right and wrong.

At some point in this dark night he'll wake,
Screaming at the demons
In his technicolour dreams,
That repeat and recur
Like movie themes,
And rattle with riffs
From rowdy rock 'n' roll anthems
Created by a cursed composer
Immersed in money-making schemes.

When the pounding of his heart
Eases enough to bid him resort to thought,
He'll wonder where he is;
And after a time he'll know
His bedroom is not his.

No comments: