So, you might remember that I went out to Liverpool the other day and wrote something of a poem entitled Thought and Love on the Albert Docks? Well, I had a second part to it which I didn’t finish, which has now developed into two parts on its own, making this spontaneous poem three parts.
For the sake of continuity, here is Gods and Men on the Albert Docks!
I awoke to silence;
and a pulsating wound where
I had thought to find my head.
I opened my eyes and
suffered a pain I felt unfair.
This sky was blue,
not a baby’s colour.
A fierce blue, portentous,
and boasting foreign translations
of a tone ever duller.
Alternate between staring
at the shade and my eyelids.
The occasional change is a pleasure,
I use to ignore the pressure
and the pain of my spine, insipid.
There is a line in my head,
a half-heard poetry or misheard lyric,
towards which I grasp, yet never catch;
it flutters between my fingertips,
incorporeal, a lie, a spirit.
I chase it, follow the trail,
of its sound through my dreams
and into inconsistent consciousness.
Twice, at least, I corner it and try,
to pin down the words, whispered as screams.
I go to rise,
and my efforts result in a groan;
my throat burns to the sound,
bleeds to the thought of speech.
I wish for nothing, but my own.
For a bed,
not a broken couch on Lime Street,
for a gentle slumber,
not a discount hunt through sleep,
for an end to cold; and heat.
I right myself and see,
a pair of eyes reflected,
from a black TV screen
I don’t recall. Purple-framed,
they look unhealthy, dead, infected.
My jaw is hidden by a scrap of a beard;
a stubble, marred with imperfections,
ginger and brown in tone
and ruggedly handsome
only to a blind-mute’s estimation.
My collar mounts to my chin,
and curves down to my collar,
like splintered entities.
I would trade all the history of England,
for the romance of a single dollar.
I feel a note,
crackle in my breast pocket,
against the empty leather;
a former loves gift,
which acts as my wallet.
How can there be hope,
when a creature such as I,
is permitted to draw such breath
on a Saturday morning;
with blood in my eyes?
I stand and nearly fall,
the great distance to the floor,
is as the divide
between the percentile
and the poor.
The gilt tap splutters,
into life, life at my command;
am I Yahweh to hold such power,
or Rand to believe,
that such power springs from my hand?
I drink, and spit it back;
it gurgles in the gutter.
Whilst I try to close my mind,
to the sound of forgotten stutters.
To a child on a stage,
in a white robe, homemade;
to hear him pray to some
with broken lips demanding that I be amazed.
There can be no God,
my conscience exclaims
so long as I can drink
and vomit and sleep
in such places without the shadows of shame.
Good and Evil,
are the result of imagination.
The human right is a dead thing,
product of unholy creation.
Here’s another absolutely stunning view of Liverpool from the kind of places I fell liberated enough to actually write and take pictures: damn my pretentious drunken self!
I may only have been joking when I floated the idea of a guide book naming the best toilets in the North-West, but I think that might actually have some ‘creative’ legs. Perhaps following one particular night out; a narrative told in a night’s pauses, in the quiet times between enjoyment? Perhaps in poetry, told in stanzas; hastily scribbled in such tentative privacy?