I swear I know this place.
I saw you here with a different face.
I still don't understand,
why your echo is so hard to trace.

I'm sure I held your hand.
Bought a CD of your favourite band.
But now the moment fades,
like a postcard from a sunburnt land.

I think I knew your name.
Kept our photo in a gilded frame.
Until the glass wore cracks
and I splintered with reflected blame.

I doubt I'd place your scent.
Or realise what that expression meant.
I try to grasp the straws,
of a haystack where the needle's bent.

I almost drew your shape.
Vaguely dreaming of our weekend scrapes.
But when I close my mind,
a window opens and the past escapes.

I don't recall your face.
Did I meet you in a different place?
I hope you understand,
that the echo makes you hard to trace.

There was a time, before all this,
of moonlight dreaming and a stolen kiss.
Reckless weekends as a roaming pack,
snarling to force each Monday back.

It never mattered that we'd rise,
at lunchtime, with ironic eyes.
Or worry that we had to vote -  
we held our freedom by the throat.

But then the music starts to skip,
a symphony more 'Dad' than hip.
You can't remember when you traded,
******* in for IKEA's pages.

Those forgotten relics of a bygone age,
lost in a corner that was centre stage.
A flickered memory of a neon soul
and the dying heart of old Rock N' Roll.

Until one day, an ageing hound,
you find you're back in canine town.
But nothing breathes familiar scent,
the perfume of your youth is spent.  

So through the mist you track your flaws
and paw the earth with blunted claws.
Announcing with a strangled howl,
that you've returned,
to the wolf pack prowl.

The Amazons fractured her skull
while he was busy
introducing himself, with a handshake
and a teapot:
'Good Morning!'
A tuneless whistle,
an anthem from nowhere
falls on deaf ears,
eyes faded to pastel
like a warning poster
after twenty copies
and acid rain.
Not an episode from real life
just an ivory circus,
the sport of savagery
Tired.
At an end.
It wouldn't happen in Blighty.
A dark heartbeat,
a steady drum
The pen is mightier than the spear,
blotted shapes in the rushes
Inert, unheard
No time for farewells

A man looks into the mirror.
An old man,
an odd man,
an ottoman, jammed with memories,
spanning centuries.
Bland extremities
glare back, like enemies.

The mirror looks into the man.
An iron gaze,
a searing graze.
No golden glaze
upon a face,
where youth was lost
in its pitted maze.

The mirror reflects
the man,
reflects
upon regrets.
Begins to regress.
Cannot protest, as time
floats by like breath.

The mirror frames
the mirror's flames,
burn deep, ingrained
and whisper strange
proverbs of his pain.
A man looks into the mirror.
A young man.
An old man.

Oh God, how are you still talking?
I can feel myself nodding,
head bouncing like a metronome,
Yes. No. Maybe.
Of course I’m listening, Babe.
Except I’m not - obviously.
I’m  watching that girl walk by, all lithe limbs,
languidly lounging past the window.
I wonder where she’s going,
I wonder where you’re going -  
with this tiresome tirade.
Your eyes rolling, like the reels on the fruit machine,
No delay on your train of thought.
Hard to keep track, can’t read the signals,
eyes filled with smoke,
trapped by your tedious tannoy,
covering old ground,
chugging relentlessly,
chanting incessantly,
crowing endlessly,  
My job? It’s fine.
My health? It’s fine!
Finances? Enough to get a pint in!
Can I risk a diversion?
Why are you broadcasting this nonsense?
When will it stop?
Pregnant.
Pause.
Wait. What?

Daffodil’s gold crown
Peeks above the fresh grown lawn
Look out! Crouching dog!

Sun on back of neck
Meat spits and pops over red flame
Ah, no ketchup left.

Trees float by like ghosts
The countryside cast in bronze
Stop! Leaves on the line.

Winter coat and scarf
Protects against the cold but,
Not from ice path falls.

Turn on the TV and switch off your brain,
tune into Jezza as you fade out the shame,
point at his cattle, and laugh at their pain,
forget their faces,
cos’ they all look the same.
Memorise headlines, forgetting you’re smart,
the news screaming fear, as this world ‘falls apart’
hating your neighbour’s a good place to start,
he’s likely a ****, or a bomber  
at heart.
‘England Expects’ is their asinine bray,
as they talk up the players on ‘Match of the Day’
before posting on Twitter that one of em’s gay.
‘Oh we lost in the semis?’
Start feigning dismay.
Forget about stress, skip working hard,
you can lend owt till payday, or just get a new card,
it doesn’t matter, if your credit is barred,
say you slipped in reception,
and hit your knee hard.
Now! Vital News! Our cameras have spied,
the markings of botox on that celebrity bride.
Maybe it’s scandal, there’s no rush to decide,
you’ve opened the box,
and its trapped you inside.