The Racetrack

Another hour has passed
and there is another one of these poems
to be written.
The thudding from upstairs
presses me on
as my fingers desperately try
to outpace them.

Hitler had the world in mind
when he made his mistake,
but these degenerates
only have themselves.

If it wasn’t for the music,
the beer, the cigarettes,
the great writers
and  
the few beautiful people
I would have carried out the dreams
of a teenage failure
long ago.

I was lucky to find Fante,
Waits and Tampa Red:
They taught me the standards
that help determine beauty
amongst regular lives.

From here I can see the eyes
of people who really see,
but there is the rest.

If you help me destroy
every mind-diluting television set,
tabloid printing press
and night club
we might just get somewhere.

Until then I weep
for the next generation
who will have no one
to show them
the simple beauty
of a stretch of woodland
adorned by birdsong
or the warm insight
gained from an evening alone
with a bottle of Rioja
and the work of Dostoevsky.

Chopin’s piano will finally die
alongside him
whilst we grow old
wishing we had said more.