Left wing, savoir faire
Ageing flicks of my thin brown hair
Like an elegy, soaking me,
Drenched in the language of social mobility,
But I don’t seem to mind
The gruesome link between
People and time;
It’s an enemy, telling me
The wheels of profit
Are circling in the opposite.
Life don’t animate -
Just creeps up on you slowly.
Surely, holy water
Flows as normal water does?
In Little Italy, I re-adhere.
Sojourn in my guilt,
Wrestle words as the apostrophes wilt,
Let the elegiac question why
Accidents happen or the well will dry.
So some come, k** me quick,
Tie me down
To an anodyne drip,
To the will of god,
And the people with sticks;
For filled with the shrill
They show much better that
Life don’t animate -
Just creeps up on you slowly.
Surely, holy water
Flows as normal water does?
In Little Italy, I re-adhere.
When the steeple cries,
There’s a martyr
For every pause.
When a dozen die,
It’s a starter for ten
To the men
Who proselytise that
a life isn’t owned but atoned.
They solidify, and in time become
Blackened and martyred.
Life don’t animate -
Just creeps up on you slowly.
Surely, holy water
Flows as normal water does?
In Little Italy, I re-adhere.