Wednesday 24 July 2013

RED CASTLE, YEARS AGO


Strange days
of insular habit,
direction?
looking for the same buzz. 
Sitting in 
wooden paradise corner 
of meat sandwiches.
Under
the tall windows
of my
wooden epiphany,
I swore – Fucking!
Top hat students
talk too painful for me
of young electric life.
Drinks are cold
and halved
quickly,
I read Lorca.
Old sagging
hulks in greys
buried in the papers
scalps pointing
across the bar.
Bar girls
in orange,
no flutterbys
no more,
are polite
to my shaved head
but keen
to move on.
And the young screamed,
eager
to perpetuate
their bubble
that rang vague bells
in me.

Glorious mission
they have found
in pub sofas
and in
cigarette cuffs.
I remembered,
holding Lorca,
as the light
uncontrollably
angered me
in principal.
I bought
Pound
which
‘no one reads for pleasure’
and a mist came down.
I remember
last night
of beef tins
with stretched handles.
Image;
warm fog
of long walks
damps peripheries
shining grey.
A mist
of accepted regret
of spreading wings
of happenstance.
Ridden hard
for the only quest;
for a better tomorrow
and
kitchen.
Aborted Texaco corners
lost in the Liquor Inn,
hard legs
pounding wrong
streets of Turk nights
Men there
coffee seated
with phones,
smooth lines
waiting
in silent attendance.
Monitoring the ether
from the garden
furniture tables.
Walking where
I only saw before,
under my own train line
of wine
riding a curved bridge
past me.

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