Parson Thru I
By Parson Thru
Writing is a means of subverting my life.
Poems and thoughts to share. All works Copyright Kevin Buckle 2011.
See me also at http://www.parsonthru.com
Find myself sitting opposite a dangerous-looking man, all big bones and wiry sinew.
Oh Lord, why us? We did all the right things. We cared, we planned, we furnished a comfortable home; provided an education second to none for the area, commensurate with income.
Seems a long way off in either direction. A message from one solstice to another.
Having flickered on the edge of death for over two weeks, Abraham Jones opens his steely-grey eyes to the world of the living.
Where did you go to Apollo? humanity hung by a thread. Where did you fly to Apollo? as I slept so soundly in bed.
Afraid he’s passed away? Oh, thank you. Well… that’s ok. You see… we thought he might. He wasn’t meant to last the night.
Somewhere, something holds my gaze. It draws me. Shining, like a beacon through time, through swirling dust. It guides me. Through banality, vulgarity,
To what end hedonism? A sticky one, I'm sure. But it's fun getting there. Old age is a pretty nasty thing to die of.
Saturday breakfast is how all breakfasts should be – with the option to become supper. No kitchen multi-tasking and over-the-shoulder glances at the clock.
How do I silence the scream? The long, unbearable scream that lives in my guts, my throat, my head and longs to pour out through my teeth. I feed it with cigarettes, whisky, sunshine and music.
I’m vomiting colours - blue a deep aquamarine hue I’m hearing time pass by shuffling past the empty open door The night fills with your name dark, musk, but stale
Monday morning larceny, I steal your time and drink your tea. One child to school, one still in bed, homework checked and pets are fed. You’ve taught me some amazing facts.
See my soul, exposed and helpless, gossamer frosted-sugar shell. Shatters at each careless jolt, melts at every touch. Catch my eyes, unprotected and naïve, betrayers of my soul.
Madame Maserati takes her usual seat by the river, at the foot of the red corporate canyon. She lights her usual cigarette, sends her usual text to her usual lover, draws a number of times
The game is up The music stopped Surprised and stunned I’m sure There’s no last chance No more romance Your plaything is no more I’d love to say It’s not this way
I saw Madame Maserati again today (not unusually) and a burning litter bin by the Quay spoke to me through the stench of roasting dog shit and take-away Chinese.
Riding through mist and pouring rain thoughts turn to shadows that drift with the scene dank steaming towns and statues in macs the boy in the window the girl who stares back
Something in her heart I cannot win; locked away, rarely glimpsed. I bear this like a veteran’s wound, an ache, until I ache no more, when glory and remembrance are dust.