Damage

You got Damage,
spilling out from every cut,
pulsating every darker hue
and colour from every bruise.
And under streetlights in some forgotten town,
on the outskirts of a statistical neighbourhood,
they came and beat the flesh from your skin.

Every lark fled like some
poor magic trick in a rotten show
(Cos' they long for the hills,
and the mountains and the snow.)
And you find the lines
between poetry and prose
are less distinguished,
less clear.

We're heading for a vinyl meltdown.
Darting sudden on a non-stop bus
plunging no thought through
the half-night-half-day time,
We're like a suckling babes on vodka;
Breath flows quicker, faster as you get there,
In amongst the white shirts, flirting with the demons,
eying up the sungirls, smiling cos you have to,
laughing OUT LOUD, picking up old plasters,
Thinking with a shudder if they'll cover
what they don't know.

You're in the show.
               You're on the stage.
                                     Don't stop.
                                                 Don't let me go.

I want to know:
Who's YOUR hero?

It's not even funny,
but it strikes you in the end,
in those moments over the cliff,
in a place you feared to collide into,
that the people who really come to rescue
are not the ones you dream about,
or the ones you hunger for,
but the ones who were always there,
waiting patiently with love in their hands,
ready to step in when the time comes,
and you can't bottle it in anymore.

Thank God for that, I'd say I know
You're here, I'm sure.

Reviews

[Butch Decatoria]

Another good one.