THE DIARY – MY DIARY
Tristan’s savage sonnets play
The rocky face of Alba’s coast
While Mr. Machievalas trips into view
On a new red street in Bermondsey West
The police were wandering around there in 1973
But lately, only 2 stray jackdaws bother
And that’s only because they can smell the blood
No one else wears a uniform
Unless you can call a scowl a badge
People just close their windows, if they ever opened
The sun golden and bright still shines
But even sun can’t eclipse the children’s apathy
And to think it’s not one hundred years
Since Japan invaded China
And women were left, a pile of chewed flesh
And broken bones upon the street
And an army supposedly brave and honourable
Raped the soul of a nation
How far have we traveled in a grey Morris Traveller?
To find the crumpled hopes of 2 generations
Were only the pipe dreams of a Timothy Leary, Swiss tablet
Marianne Faithful was not Madonna
Chairman Mau, not every boy’s romantic father
While we all imagined we were Stephen Stills
And every willing woman, therefore, an honest fuck
On days like that, we could not touch the earth
Or fly through sashed-windows
Or bury Tolkien’s Bible in the grey graveyard
Amid the mossy stones
Engraved with history and the names of
Sincere people who lived quiet lives
In the time before Lucifer stirred
Dressed as a flaming Jessy
And with a scorpion in his bag
And the silent waters trickle down
On a moor near Helmsley Deep
And the hourglass converts to digital
… thud
..
edenbray - the poet - SITE A 