LOST SOULS
The crime is with the leaders, you caused the death of thousands,
destroyed two cities. Cursed your generation so it became the guinea pig,
the atomic generation. You all glow in the dark, legacy lasting to my life.
Now more have the bomb, ten thousand times bigger than the Hiroshima firecracker,
that destroyed your city. Old people walk happily down the street,
look them in the eye, they don’t blink. See into their soul and witness what they saw. Beside them young people holding hands and enjoying each other’s conversation,
no cares in the world. New generation, innocent? Children holding their parents’ hands
and looking happy. Will they ever experience those awful scenes and events from sixty
years ago? What do they think of their relatives who lost their lives,
do they think to themselves, what was all that? Did it really happen?
Time moves on but one question hangs in the air, breathlessly, still poignant:
Will it happen again? Who, what will start the madness, how many will die
in the next mushroom cloud? You, me, my family, our world?
CHAFF
Tuesday is February, an unwanted day
like the unwanted month, of no use whatsoever.
Might as well call it the unwanted day and useless month.
Can’t go and get pissed or dance in a glitzy club on a Tuesday.
It wouldn’t feel right if you could, the working week not even half thru.
What to do? Play darts at the pub? Okay for sad middle-aged fat men.
And what to do in February? Go and get a tan in Spain, yea right.
Or skiing in Norway, my spiritual home.
For us all February and Tuesday are useless,
no more but chaff against the wheat.
Come on July and Friday!
QUESTION MARK
Bad day coming here round the corner to get me.
Repetitive comeuppance for my dark thoughts
and my lonely life, all in a circle. To break
this I need: a decent job I like with good pay
and suitable hours, lots of love in my relationship
with a special love life, all mine. Too much to ask
it seems, in my mouldy flat in Oldham,
my relationship on the edge due to no real love life.
No rumpy pumpy for me, so do I find a lover
to end my frustrations? Fate will rule the outcome
and guide me: where I end up is a question mark.
FLAT, ALIVE
Nature’s vibrant garden is alive in my flat.
Tell me why, my pagan gods and goddesses,
why I have such a diverse area of wildlife and culture,
for I have seen spiders as big as my hand – made me scream!
Small baby slugs yesterday, washed them away – cant kill babies!
I destroy large crawlers like earwigs, large slugs, beetles and spiders.
My soul is tormented by all of this: hey Mother Nature, why is all this
wildlife in my flat? Back to nature? Screw my head up and show me my pagan
faith, not to mention the mould and damp ruining my decorating and doing
my head in even more—all alive in my flat!
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