Lament for Apollo

Through Grey Street
I stagger
Clothed in silver
Dreaming of Apollo

My lips are blackened
My fingers numb
The prospect of warmth ahead
Somewhere, why doubt?

I’ve seen his bow arched over the river
His flaming arrows around the market place
Yet men seem distant
They count their pennies and sigh
Drink ale and forget

From the sweltering heavens
Apollo aimed at us by the Tyne
But then he argued with Dionysus
Over wine and theatre
And grew weary himself

Thus the Swing Bridge bears a glorious scarlet
The stalls at Monument sell sizzling sausages
And I shiver
Day after day after day

Whilst Apollo heads on a cruise ship for Hyperborea
To bathe naked with the muses
I look out to the world from this tiny window
Open the latch and drop
My last burning desire in the stove

Heaton, December 6th, 2009

Breathing is Easy

Anyone can do breathing
In and out mechanically
Don’t have to think about it
Dreaming, you see
That’s something else
Dreaming is for losers
But just the type that knows its worth
Not all losers know its worth
Not all losers are of worth
The type that knows
The exact amount
Of shit that moulds his life
And yet is prepared to take more in
That type can well and truly enjoy
Full, mind-blowing dreams
The rest of us, mere mortals
Can only wish for

Heaton, December 6th, 2009

Words

Carried out firmly
On the tip of my muscular tongue
Delicately poured onto silken paper
Vowels moaning as they fall, head down
Consonants landing with a thud
Avidly they rearrange themselves
As if to please me
So is the beginning of loss
And guilt
For if they aren’t the right words
I cannot take them back
The pen rises
The wrong words shiver in dismay
And as I draw a jagged line over them
I instantly learn to regret it:
Dread the sight of the blotch
That makes up their crossed, annihilated bodies
Upon my soft, white page
The ghosts I set free
Come back to haunt me

Heaton, December 5th, 2009