Born to Hang
The crescent moon hangs as the
Executioner’s smile across harbour lips,
Windswept rhapsodies of a midnight piano
Wreathe the mouth of the teenage junkie
To the somnolent doorway……
The Irish Sea is sullen tonight.
The sinking sonar of summer’s lonely swimmers
Sleepcrawls across the drowned steam-submarine (of 1880).
A peroxide wraith rattles shingle
Saturated thighs breach breakers,
On your knees and pray for me
For the roped fatale is emerging.
Hampstead host to beguiling swine
(Sty)lised fools of fortune, Savile Row arms
Drape their persistent necessity.
Gin, satin slings, wedding rings
Planted in pernicious pots.
Brutal men prefer blondes, strapped
To their windscreen and knuckles,
Queen to Blakely’s British Racing Green
Dethroned on a never ending final lap,
One more slap and see how the gears change.
Femme fatigue, dreams of stilettoing his heart,
Smoke ballistic breath at (h)arm’s length.
Come down before David and murder love
Come before Christ in swinging ear-rings.
Fishing nets are at sail
So what can catch the black hearts?
As Monroe in methadone mist
The Gods of small boat (a)light her.
Triggered fingers claw the sand,
Her keel lists towards an eternal groin,
Three hundred and seventy degrees, and
I’ll scavenge through the heaped wreck.
On forecourt of derelict garage
Her waters divide wide open,
Fumes neck the unsealed bottle,
Open mouth in the night, dripping shards.
Someone takes her hand down
A line of soft white glass,
Away from the drowned bells and
Her wretched newspaper’ed history.
It’s a long walk home for
Those who are named guilty.