It’s bin day tomorrow,
And the Sunday weather is meant to arrive.

                   Perhaps we can skip  
                          the morning complications and    

Lay intertwined.
So apropos, that would be just fine.

The bounders are saying that noon is coming early today,
And that we should retire before the sun is at her highest.
They tell us to lock our doors tight, and to throw away
Any desire to open them again, at least until
The bounders’ wives come knocking early the next day.
Strangely, they warn against closing our windows
Instead they state that they ought to be kept feebly ajar.

But I can’t sleep with an open window anymore.
The village doctor, who dresses in suit and tie
But likes to lie and speak rather astue, says it’s due
To some scar I acquired fighting the morally confused.

Every Wednesday, when I go to meet the ‘doc’, he
Assures me that he has some kind of qualification and
Always says not to worry about the specifics (or
His motives) as they would probably go over my head.
He starts our hour asking about the terror in the air
And the echoes of shriek-filled nights, and whether
They still remind me of that summer on the front line,
Without fail, and without remorse I always reply;

“Lovers sleep because we (the
Buoyant folk) gave our souls,
Our limbs and our speech, and
Now we live with these deep
Aches and fake laughs. These
Are what we gladly deserve”.

The words leave my mouth at a crawl, and
Take a miserable five minutes to complete.
The rest of my time at the quackery (this is what
The wife use to call it) is spent ironing
Over my other, less obvious, flaws. The doc
Says they are from much more recent wars,
And that I ought to use his miracle stock
To see if that succeeds in finding the cure.

The wife use to chuckle when I told her of my time
With the quacking man;

“More like barking mad!” she would exclaim,
Always through a snide but warm grin.

Those words always come quickly to mind
When I visit the doc, I shan’t tell him or he’d
Probably prescribe some strange empty remedy.
You see, the wife died a few years ago, not long
After my hate for open windows began. The doc
Thinks i’m over my wife’s permanent leave and
He even believes that i’ve started courting again.
I even told him once of a woman named ‘Claire’
Who would regularly visit my home to cut my hair,
And that on such an occasion we had started an affair.
The doc readily consumed this lie (reminding me
Of why the wife called him a fraud), and I sniggered
Into my elbow crease so he wouldn’t catch on.

The wife sits on the mantelpiece now, watching
Me from above the evening embers that light up
The eerie and solemn nights. I often converse
With myself, pretending the wife still listens but
I know her role was revoked from the world.
Alas, I am forced to play her part but I am afraid
There are few words left now, only mocking
Phrases for the quacking man and the barking mad.

Perhaps one day we can settle down, not today  
(and not the next)
And maybe not even a year from now but I hope
One day that   that ‘patch of trimmed grass’
                                                       (by the towering Oak tree.)
      Will be ours.

Heather mounts the whispering hillsides where, since
Time’s genesis, hopeful men have retired and gone to die
And where their murmurs now permanently reside.
Where there is a home for the settling magpies, between
The bushes of bleached purples and murky greys. This place,
This stretched out place, sits under the teary drowned out sky,
And beyond the sight of the youthful starry eyes -
This place, this dreary place is coined the Sunken Side.

Gormless men limp out onto those hills, parading
Their depleting health and bragging to the clouds
Of their dampened wealth; all without the grandeur
Of uniformed marching limbs. Rather, they are more akin
To a slow drunken tide coming in at day’s end. Alas, this
Is how the Sunken Side has been penned, a place for buried men
And sullen men to withhold remorse, and play dead.  

Strangers strapped to strangers, glued to one another’s side,
Like mere passerbys queued in crowds of outsiders and snides .
This is no Holy place, and neither is it a Royal place;
Kingly deemed men are not catered here, rather only
A peasantry mess is ever vindicated, and spaces are reserved
For those sulking on islands, or those looking for new faces.

These same men bathe in buttercup fields, and seemingly
Fall in love with the briskly buttered on luck. But,

Do they dare take the Sunken test? Go out onto the Sunken Side,
Take in the hollow sinking breath and abide
Now only to the heather hills and the stranger men whose eyes
Are sewed to stars where each pupil latches
On to a flicker in the heavens, and men turn bizarre. Sparking
An obsession, and initiating constant digression with their
Sunken life. No, they rather regress to soaking in time.

Their need for kingdom
And want for graded inclusion outlives their mortality
And perpetuates their morality. Kingdoms always die.  
But the thirst for kingdom will never dry.
Alas! on this Sunken Side, amoungst the heather and
Whispering hills, men surrender their wills
And gladly give their final farewells.

Round and round the four walls,
A clock hand
Comes to a slow crawl,
Eager for time to stop.

(tick tock.)

Winding back and forth, tossing
Lemons and limes over the floor,
Across mother’s caring look
And through the double doors,
Landing at the base of the cat’s paws.

Rewind and wind back the clock,
Pick up a rock
From the naked garden patio
And lock the backdoor, where
You wait for 2 O'Clock.

(tick tock.)

Back inside, go and find
Those lemons and limes,
Stop with the tossing and
Anger, focus now on juggling
Limes and lemons and
Try to answer
Mother’s questions.

Marble, sweat and rivers jolting away
This is the veil in which we play.
A city distracted from other’s gaze and
Far astray from the turtles’ graze. Torchlight
And illuminating words, spark a phantom turn
Ditching the foreign birds and when justice
Is spoken, it is unheard. Unearth
And unearth the doubting worm, feed it
The thieves of the land, allow
Them to punish the thieving man. Speak
Bitter and more wittier than most, tell the
Impotent and spectral ghosts that they, like us,
And like today are not entitled
To a rise in pay. Like the potato men
Who would weigh and weigh
And wade and wade for as
Little pay as
Fourty pence and a kind
Delay on their crippling rent.

Over and over the marble hedge, and
Across the pools of delirious sweat sleeps
Bountifuls of brush and deer, soaking up
The tears of lesser fellas, queer men
Back from deserts,
Tightening their belts and
Clasping at their mother’s gifted quilts.
Cactus sounds follow them home, prickly
Towns await in their ready made tombs, and dirt
Dirt, dirt filled cracks block comfort
And solace in their tracks.

Remembering when thunder struck, and how
‘Tough love falling out of love’ is a thought
Keeping the boys away from graves. Keeping
The boys safe and tucked behind
The garden maze, the green paths and walls
Of Europe's lavish sites keep the boys
Safe and tucked,
And in and out of love like a parrot
Stuck barking the same
Unpleasant rhymes.

Kingdom come, come marching towards
The heavy crimson sun and speak
Easy towards fun and fun. Men have not
Seen fun for some time, it was barred
From the camps on the riverside.
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the corporal said,
“Pick up a gun and have some fun” the witness said,
And “Pick up a gun and have some fun” the grieving
Brother and
Tired mother cried.  

Fun has thieved the land, taking
Man and man away from the rivers and the lakes. Sinking
Man into water, and engulfing water in man.
Fun has taken life after life and
Watered down the meaning of strife, men
No longer tighten their belts
Or grieve on their mother’s quilts
But rather sip at straws and pause
The heroes on the screens, wishing and hoping
For more meaningful means, perhaps
As numbing and forthcoming
As their midday dreams.

Beyond the violet and violence, through the hole in the heap
Dwells men of fierce histories and stone conditionings, there
They sit in circle and misery, holding guilt close
To their ears and parting with their own ditch-dipped words.
Collections of tragedies and schools of morose mentalities
Dance in the middle of the room, speaking down on eachother;
Most likely an attempt to impress Mother and to scold Father.
They don’t get very far, these talks, rather
They end further down the ladder than when they commenced -
Two rungs down and the heavy tattooed butcher man
Sinks two quarter-full whiskies to help him find his bed.
Five rungs down and the spanner wielding skinny man
Calls up a number to haunt unpaid listeners with what he said.
Nine rungs down and the privileged uni boy
Smokes batons of magic leaf until his eyes are painted red.
This is where the stories end,
Those Who fell past rung nine
Are no longer falling and alive.
One rung up and the naive boat keeping man
Tells his wife he’s feeling better but out of luck.
One rung down and the naive boat keeping man
Tells his wife he’s feeling worse but rather proud.
The ladder stands tall and overarching
At the ‘dried out men’ meetings,
It’s the only one that keeps its posture
And never falls under -  
Perhaps one day it will falter
And the men will see
That they are more than just
A rusting rung on a ladder.