Orange and gold
Through the stain glass window
Brighten the churchly silence
And the unyielding heart.
Foxgloves and orchids
float in the air –
I could hatch my eggs right here;
Behind her undeserving shrine,
Casting darkness on your lonely burial.
Lord Ashton, you fool.
I’m high in the dungeon,
The statue is headless.
Are we talking about the walls
Or drenching ourselves in useless sadness?
On the tree stump I forgot
If you mattered to me yet.
You were shrieks, nettles and streams,
Red leaves and silly dreams;
The laughs and the pints,
The sly glares and all my fears:
All my hazy window seats.
I’ve forgotten why I care
But I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.
And I forgot to walk the promenade,
I forgot to warm the bench
And I couldn’t drown my thoughts
In the marshy quick sand.
I forgot to match the pretty face, ask –
Did the chemo go okay?
Yet they loved me anyway,
I who could never afford their pain.
I forgot how to be grateful
With my flesh my flesh my flesh.
I forgot the date, the present and the letter
And I can’t recall why it ought to matter.
This is the bubble, the cell block,
The lithium drenched infirmary.
Here we don’t feel like going to bed
Or to die a slow death in the library.
Here the sky is white and clinical
And the crystals didn’t catch my breath
And I didn’t smell the fresh wet leafs,
All I saw was corpses and death.
Now I’m sober, I’m cold, I’m clever.
I disgust myself more than ever
And I leave you with a humid heart,
My lower second class grave, Lancaster.
And the people in those houses
Oh, they laugh and dance, dance, dance.
And they grab my hand and twirl me round
I entertain, and I am bland.