KEYS TO THE CITY
I: A New Career In A New Town
II: Dream Life
III: Paintings As Prayers
IV: Late Summer Evening
Rose Crowned Evenings
Moments Of Pure Ashtray
The Personalised Circus
Blind Children On Western Streets
Lucifer Says He Won't See Me
Swans On The Surface
Girl Smoking On Balcony
Stained Glass Window
The Insurance Was WILD
The Sea's Smile
Van Gogh's Lights
The Disappointed Prince
A Night At The Circus
Chekhov In Kreuzberg
A Stolen Dress
Two Contract Killers Get Arrested
My Uncle Dick
Death In The Cafe
Performing To The Curtain
Getting Past The Curtain
Living With Samuel Beckett:
An Anti Essay
A reign of dull humidity, soaked skylines and bemused flowers:
July you failed your promise to your sister Spring.
You had promised me many things too:
I had visions of radiant gardens, quaint footpaths
Illuminated in terrific light,
Bicycle bells and the humming of bees,
Streets aglow in vibrancy,
The colour Blue silent and formidable above.
But the greyness drums all surfaces like a dull blade,
Bruising and nullifying.
O land of disappointment!
My plans paralysed, my imagination impotent.
In a month in which boredom is usually banished,
I am confined to an empty bed and a wet ruined garden
- And hear how I moan! For it has now reached the point where I seek shelter in verse.
The clouds crave a new release
and so spill their ravenous new rain,
And I stand by the window,
watching this same scene once again;
This numbing spectacle,
where trees noisily shake,
where infant flowers
do nothing but break,
This numbing spectacle,
clutching me back to days inappropriate,
the fleeting echoes, the teasing familiarity;
I see and experience it all again:
O Time! Your footsteps, your songs, your emotions -
What about mine?
But it must fly, fly away,
fly away into the never,
and O I do know this,
even as I jump and rattle the skies,
like a young boy challenging butterflies.
Time, where do your memories go?
Do they lose themselves in the innocent breeze
and find their way to the heavens?
Or do they fall and sink to depths I know not of
nor wish to either.
There’s nothing like resignation with the rain,
each moment, each memory, falling further away,
further falling for the pouring horizon of all that is past;
drowning all that could have been.
Pour rain, pour! You’re ridiculous in your volume;
But I am not bitter with you - I’m not even wet.
though your rain does soak all I had sheltered.
I will try to smile as your drops fall through,
for like the empires of old,
and memories of May,
this will all just pass;
and might there not again be days that shine? that reign with light and good!
Where sky and ground become synonymous in loving reflection,
Where rays go forward, too young to sink with these marshes of memories,
Where they soar with naive grace for something else, something else,
For puddles can only float for so long.