My noise, or music
(I don’t know which is which)

But it tries to escape,
And is broadcast, nightly

Over flat roofs and chimneys
Along fog choked alleys,

Through city streets
Till caught in its own limit

It’s consumed, and strewn,
Over an iron bridge

Down to the river
To become another corpse.

————————————————————

It could be me,
Along with my dream,

Blown up in a river.
It could be me, face down

Listening to the city;
Trying to perceive

Through the noise
Of shuddering trains

And the bereft sirens,
Wailing for the lost.

It could be me
Trying to perceive

Underneath music
The underneath voice that says

'You have to drown to hear me,
You must be, baptised in silence'

————————————————————

I knew his father once (the Baptist’s)
And I believed in him

Like some comic-book hero,
I believed in his powers.

And now, in this city
I can only believe in ghosts

Ghosts found wandering
Among attendant chords

Carried at night
Across the city lights

Playing on a empty swing
Under afternoon sun

And in lingering mists of dawn
That pearl the ground.

I’ve felt that ghost
Near the wood at twilight

And in a foxes stare
And a strangers smile.

————————————————————
But feeling ain’t believing,
So Sunday mornings are spent

For better or worse,
In pursuits and hot-heeled chases,

Of spent thoughts and sorry dreams
That try to stem the tide

That try to forget the plea, to join the rats,
And to see the sea.

————————————————————
But, almost accidentally
I still always find music,

In a hush of wind, or in swirling leaves
As my head breaks through roaring waves.

Contemplation makes the music clearer
Revealing the divinity of expression.

Revealing the label-less ghost, with a comic-book name;
‘The Unseen Hand’ which plays

Throughout the night in days
And is heard when yearned for.

And it will not die, for it has never lived,
Apart from the mind.