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)