Give me a pigeon’s loft of neglect because I want to be left alone here in the city where everyone’s busy.
My head aches with red wine and poetry, that’s fine! But whoever I’m with calls it a selfish forbidden neglectful crime an awful waste of time.
All this art stuff as you grow old it’s just a stale old fart; its tasteless and selfishly absorbed in what was once mine or hers.
All love is a dereliction of time because the more you give the less it becomes the less there is to understand or grasp.
So give me a pigeons loft and tell all your friends and mine he’s gone mad been mad long time gone.
Gone with the city ruins and the mouse music in the rafters of a quiet unlit home of alarms.
Gone with the old left over news that’s all still waiting to be printed and slung out and sung with the blues.
Gone with the solitude of his muse or what was once just a longing in him to be defused, incessantly self-amused.
God was said to have been his minstrel but even he was only a child’s comfort-blanket to use and abuse in the halve light of his own self sub diffuse.
Give him a pigeons loft in that old empty secondary school beneath the cold hammering winter’s rain, with some old text books; books they never meant to do him any real harm they didn’t mean to cause him any pain. Let him sleep on that old piano and listen to Beethoven in the euphoric rain.
Let those ebony windblown notes in the trees find there spring once again a cure for him.
Shuffle and watch; there’s a ghost train of leaves entering these buses from the shelters and some of them are blackberry swiping thieves, but look there’s that lone poet above them; swinging from the eaves.