The Hills Where The Air Is Clear

Awaking to the bite of shattered glass
the alarm clock still vibrates on the floor of marble
across the sheets I see stains of soggy grass
I reach for water, pour, and gargle
I spit a mouthful out the window at the kids
walking playfully to school, tiny little invalids

The sweet scent of sambuca resonates within
I reach for a cigarette and an unused match
I fear I may be dying slowly of sin
for my organs do not feel like the greatest catch
awash with alcohol, hatred and ash
all spewed together in a messy mash

I rise from the bed, an awakening ‘gator
put on a shirt, a tie, a jacket and a brace
my head is ‘most exploding, but I’ll come to that later
I get down on one knee to tie up the lace
But then on my black shoes I notice a glitch
Could it be? Is it a prawn sandwich?

Shock and awe I fall quickly into
I am vegetarian, so I do not eat fish
(for no such silly reason as being Christian, Martian or Hindu)
but even if I did, a shoe is no place for a dish
especially one of such poor and cheap taste
and anyway, food is something one should never waste

My mind wanders and I forget about it all
I step out the door and the chill welcomes me here
horns and sirens wail, but nothing can make me stall
for I am on my way to the hills where the air is clear
and atop them I stand, inundated in tranquillity
up here there is nothing but peace and civility

I look around at the grey world rolling on
they are running to make money and running home to die
each one of them out to betray and con
but me I am fine on this green hill, up high
where nothing happens but the birds stroking air
and the wind passing gently through my long, rugged hair

And no, I am not serious and I am not a poet
I am not a spokesman or inspiring writer
If my work has pleased anyone then I do not know it
And I am not a composer or great powerful fighter
What I currently am is a man
Quite tall, chubby, ginger with a tan
On a hill with a painful, alcoholic stitch
Wearing black shoes, splattered in prawn sandwich.