They came in with the tide, from a shipwreck and an old seadog’s cry: So ingrained, they became grains of sand by and by. Hidden in an hourglass, so sky-high they got lost back in time, my oh my.
An exotic head with a black glass-eye was buried so deep any tear would dry before it had a chance to testify and shatter the truth before prying eyes would pry.
There are lots of moments you should have been there. Moments we would have laughed about something someone said or did. Some place that would have been to share Or, if not, to be told where it was hid.
Now, nostalgia is very easy to print and bind or download and save that very day. Moments the brain’s lowly-paid librarian catalogues away whether right or not, by choice, or unfair. There are lots of moments you should have been there.
All records had been broken. Anyone who had ever sung or played was to be forgotten. Police enquiries and sleeve notes had shown their muscle and brawn. No more copyright rights. Any artistic spirit would be released to the state born.
or is it man on a wheel? no time to think about what you feel you’re out of shape you can’t work it out you can’t keep up with what life’s about it’s work work work the rat race at your feet you look ahead through the people you meet keep running my friend you’ll get to the end but when you do don’t blame yourself if you die of too much worthless wealth.
Predictable predictors get so used to predicting what will happen, it’s almost like nothing does. Snatching depression from the jaws of happiness they wear puppets on their gloves.
Isn’t it just the way that bottles of wine spin at the end of the day when things were just getting better? When it seemed there were enough hours left to out-welcome any stay?
So, The Optimists’ Club turns over a new leaf and sticks post-it notes with The End is Nigh written on their foreheads and go to sleep wearing their sandwich board pyjamas lying on top of each other, stacked up like bunk beds.
90s ghosts in The Beer Engine in Newton St Cyres get butterflies in their stomachs about haunting the station throwing up collectors with their nets to get caught and pinned down in their own dusty collection.
Do you ever make up conversations with real people in your head? That then keep you awake at night as you mull over every word and later quote them verbatim to others: words they actually never said?
Chancers scratch scratch cards looking for a better future but start to lose sight of why they started and scratch out their eyes.
Meanwhile, somebody who shall remain nameless chants: I need no-one’s help to snuff out my own desperate cries and do tricks to a standing ovation to fool myself until the clapping dies.
A Pretty Kettle of Poetry 