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Tuesday, 15 November 2011

Postcards from Home, Part 4, I think...

Wish you were here.
Maybe we could drink in the irony
Of these soldiers of the night
Who wrestle not against flesh and blood
But against the dexterity of their own fingers
And infinite boredom

Maybe we could lay dexterous hands on each other
And I could wear the warmth of your skin around my neck
And hope some more

I need not now gulp a goodbye from my throat
Or wheeze another song

Through the overhangs of Monday's spine

I need not now succumb to the promise of soggy chips
Balanced on trembling digits

Because it is possible
That a warrior’s cry lies waiting
To be expelled from lungs
Long since sacrificed to the Smoke

And so, perhaps, I can hold these hands up
Against the Neon-lit streets
Against the tide of idle thoughts
Against the peculiar world
And answer your calls

Maybe you could say it is man’s duty
To tuck these thoughts in
And bite the tongue
And the bullets
And the bit pulling you back

And maybe I should stop wishing
To change the state of play

Me on way home the other day, photo is of a queue at midnight for Call of Duty 3 (the controversial modern warfare video game) ... Random idea in my head now which I've conflated with random idea in my head then... not sure if it works, but I'll play with it tomorrow)

1 comment:

  1. works fine for me, especially with the image.

    part of me wants to suggest 'neon streets' instead of 'Neon-lit streets', but I'm not sure that's not just me being an iamb fascist. that's definitely the best stanza, though.