The Song Remains the Same
Image via www.sxc.hu
We were cigar-smoking sylphs,
we were angst-ridden waifs,
not quite role-model material
We were The Clash and The Cure,
Lena-Lovich demure,
but never Nirvana funereal
We were Flashdance and Fame,
we were Grease, Purple Rain,
not Dolly-sweet 9 to 5vers
We were Wham, All That Jazz,
Chorus Line razzmatazz,
Saturday Night Fever survivors
We were pathological humour,
the kohl-girls of rumour,
but never drug-addled chic
We were Dark Side of the Moon
and Kate Bush la lune,
living The Dreaming mystique
We were polka-dot punkers,
Spandau Ballerinas,
not tattooed suicide-grunge,
Twisted Sister crazies,
You were Thelma, I, Louise
But,
in the end,
only you
took that plunge
now, only silence
those students always chatting
watch without whisper,
‘Night and Fog‘ their silencer
Silent Witness
In hands made
to heal, did the shaking
of a child’s delight become
monstrous crystal ball
Stalin
Hitler
Akazu
revealed
as snow settled
into blood
stains seeping
across continents,
and out
through your
fingers?
Did you
catch the shadows
in a father’s benevolent eyes?
Is that why,
Ana,
you lie cold
beneath the snow,
silenced by your
own hand?
He could not hide
in plain sight
from you
A History of Fear
it’s
the dark, those monsters
under the bed, first day
at school – bruce m trying to kiss
you in the sandpit
and hell-to-pay for jumping in every puddle on your way home,
men in hearses and dark
glasses – stranger-danger,
not running solo, nor flying, but
an umbrella on the wind – cruel and unusual,
old man on the street corner -
feathered hat, immaculately
polished shoes, threadbare clothes,
a broken headlamp in the rear-view
and unspeakable things,
and then, you know, the death of a parent,
DNA gone awry,
that your actions caused this -
suffering,
not of your own shadow but
rage, betrayals,
the sound
of your own screaming,
depravity of infant
body-bombs,
spectres – Margaret Hassan, the Falling
Man,
Afghani children smashed
into dirt playgrounds,
the death of dreams, sadness
of others,
hearts beating through walls,
and then,
somehow, nothing
much
at
all
…
least of all
death
