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Image for the poem blackbird on the wire

blackbird on the wire

Some days,
I like to take a lonesome
Walk around your mind.

Smokey crematorium perfume
Drapes o’er shrouded curtains,
Doors open at 24 frames a second
Lit by lingering vision
He's still in his armchair
Chewing a pipe, lips circling tea cup
As if that why God gave
Him such a kindly mouth.

The aqua urn resembles
Vase on the mantelpiece,
Where flowers whispered
To be set free, to wilt
For the soil to be more than a grave.

Our fable
Is what we are not
& never can be.
Our fable
Lies in the wick
& strike of the match.
Our fable
Becomes a petrol bomb
Passed from generation
                     to generation,
Exploding at foetal footprints
Carved into clay by dead man’s shoes:
Again
And again.

Used to be a sensitive boy.
At back of church
Held his hand tightly,
Fear that vicars delivered death
Amongst pews, polished shoes
& ridiculous hats.
He was the light
At top of the stairs.


Antiseptic twilight
We counted the
Blackbirds on the wire:
…Ninety eight
Ninety nine
One hundred…

His throat burst with pride;
Darkness began to close the blinds
Carrier bags wrought the wire.
The blackbirds had never been here
Not here.
Somewhere >>
Over there.

The world was out.
Blue dreamer eyes
Were shut by whirled wind breaths,
Occupying the tongue, fading,
Flickering, deceiving…..fading.
No 68 gun salute, glitter falling from ceiling -
Merely machine plink
Car alarm
& silence.

When I returned from arse of world
He rang and creaked angrily:
“You look for happiness in wrong places son.”

Not anymore Dad
Not anymore.

Learning to count blackbirds again.


ERUGLCT #16

Pic. Adrian Henri. Bird. 1960
Strangeways_Rob
Written by Strangeways_Rob
Published
Author's Note
ERUGLCT #16. Umanoid. Dad. Rushed/Brainstormed. It takes guts to be gentle and kind. STAY SAFE ALL
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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