Here’s another forgotten poem
Seven times long down the line
I wonder what is this spin?
This fried monkey in a hat stares at me through paper thin walls
And the tumbling line of Jericho crumbles.
Inside this public house, I am god of the heart broken,
Monster of the West.
There are no pennies for fools in these tins.
No pennies for fools on the streets.
No pennies in the windows of shops which creak and bend like rusty wind,
The forgotten lore of some widowed banker fumbling with her purse,
Not the same since she lost interest in
And the metric howl of the streetlights fall upon deaf ears that walk upon hind legs
Which forage in the tombs of our forebears.
Out there in the sceptical night she walks alone.
She walks alone.
She walks alone and the scatter of the leaves move deftly away from her as if to signal for the brass to sound in the distance
A cool metal noise that follows her through soaking yellow streets.
Artie chokes on the seeds that I gave him and he laughs
And he orders another and me I just sit there counting the spare buttons in my pocket.
And the landlord comes over with this cool rage
And he’s all fists and eyeballs
A tremble-aid of a view
Never more will I count my sorrows
As things around me die.
Love Michael x