Blue Hangar

Balletic, poetic.
Like a dove with two guns.
Will I care at all --

about that credo
the African priest taught me
- to be a good little gentleman?

Music and violence.
The ferocious chatter of weapons.
They spit like an old man speaks
inflicting the damage of a concise song.

Deep marroon, warmth is expelled.
Hands in my hair, wind in my coat
it billows like a sail engaged in promoting me.

At the airport now.
Ready to board, and be bored abroad.
I am both violent and yet sympathetic
to the music in my head.

Swallow down this cerebral noise.
Fetch me some manuscript
to transcribe the steps and with chased breath
realise a gassy tune that is beautiful
and at once, immediately memorable.

The blue hangar is deserted.
The soft walls can assume your identity
and tell you the private things you frequently did.

Made of royal sandstone.
My oak shoes are like woodblocks
in this orchestra of the underworld.

Sense the sudden speed in my feet
and you'll know the violent rhythm in me.
You are now listening to a state of the art ballet composed at the blue
hangar
to an accompaniment of percussive and papery skull-cracking blows.