Dangerous nonchalance, tame the tongue as one would tame the Shrew.
Nigger owes you when it owns you,
tie the rope around the neck, choke the spirit behind the word till it sounds like Reggin.
Old words in new clothes begin aggin with new clothes on old pain.
Healers like dealers, double up on bad luck for crowned faces cried out in biro blue.
Thorny headed healers for troubled heart, trembling lips sip from the pimp cup, your child drinks your tears through breast milk, breathe easy baby.
Where is your gravestone? They ask. Double chin up, but you ran out of time slowly. Dragged your bones forwards for your bastards to pick at the choices. Sounds right. She loved you dearly. Nearly. Had you. Hindsight. Beloved burden, clearly marked for some kind of purpose if not a living born outside of life.
Light hearted but the older the lie, the harder the trust bites the lack of. Dearly beheaded, buttered up the heart with sayings and cholesterol calamitous promises. Words stray further that the eyes can see. I can see further than the stray. But I can’t feel that way west or some south eastern mystery that dies with us in a fry up. Did we learn well? How long the tarry, and how merry the folly. Only fools and Horses, and the company of the dead who bury their own.
Hamburger aroma of weed smoke arising, latching onto hipster attire, Engineer’s banter louder than boom bap mutations, mute DJ slaying the Latin, cap on forward, sideways glancer catching a vibe, luscious lady, copper smooth, eyes find mine in hers, stepping out my mind to mingle with hers, just a sec or two, not a game, mature as you and I tonight, wrinkled and frank, digesting the jest, next questions begat more doubts than assurances, grown folks are childhood inventions, nurtured natures and fallen angels run the roost, while tall babies wag tails with tales, I’m talking and listening, I’m watching and fiddling with your thoughts and my attention spans the expanse of your face, the crevices, the creaky foot path across your mind and mine, gapping the bridge when I’d rather be inside of you, twister sister, mind over mister, feline recline, I’ve got you forged onto me.
Atom bombs don’t need to play tit for tat and title, like men in suits. It’s the long game. And the short of it. The certainty of it is that nobody wins. But we already know how this plays out. What’s clear is not new. Hiroshima had a baby that had a baby that had a heart beat that had a memory that did not forget.
Last year in the same stadium where Usain ran his last individual race tonight, I watched him run a pedestrian time (by his standards) in his favoured sprint event, the 200m. Then I looked at the awe filled faces around me after he had won less emphatically than he was accustomed to. Old and young faces of various shades wore identical expressions.The after glow illuminated those same faces that perhaps had more in common with the grey of London than their sunny disposition . They had seen the fastest man in recorded history do the inevitable. Winning was never in doubt. I left the stadium with a sense of an ending. I had watched him run well enough to win another race and it couldn’t last forever. Not long after that night, he added three more gold medals to his tally of nineteen (Olympic and World championship). A flawless resume, untainted by missed or failed drug tests. It was time to go. The body knows best. But in some peculiar way, the fact that he didn’t win tonight will endear him to the world even more so than a 20th gold medal might have done. We finally got to see him face defeat in a major championship final and he handled that adversary with grace. How we lose is just as significant as how we win.
We like our superheroes to have some semblance of weakness to remind us that they do exist on the same surface of the earth that we bestride. Father time is krypton’s leveler restoring balance and the order of things. I’m glad that I am a witness to his boundary breaking efforts. He kept the sport of Track & Field Athletics alive at the worst of times and I’m sure there will be a lot of new borns named Usain in Jamaica for years to come. In defeat he remains very much a champion of a medal far more illustrious than gold. He won the hearts and minds of the people. Common folk from all walks of life. He will remain the people’s junk food loving and living champion. He leaves the track as arguably the greatest sporting phenomenon of my lifetime.
Is it the sky that colours the thought that my eyes speak when you look into me? I didn’t try to hide your questions in there. We just got stuck on the tangled high wire of hearts we dared to cross on foot. No fear. Just fools. Just us.
I wore your favourite smile today. It only cost me a tear before the train arrived to put me back on track. Love races the many miles of memories behind a kiss. I had hoped to return it to her sacred place. Sometimes we hold on too long and awake to find that the dream does not always follow us into the morning. And yet the Sky remains as young and dear to me as that devil in green. Or was it blue? And I as old as the grey bearded child I always was.
Calella leaning, tilting for tips, toes standing up for the streets, with bended hearts so hip to hope. Don’t stain the carpet when you cushion the fall. Don’t rumble young man, and don’t call the law. Don’t scratch the considerate air that carried your balls higher than the crawling Spiders you fear, and the Tuesday flings that booted you out on the curb of slithering desires, bouncing your love into a glass of shampain. Who’d be a patriot for all the basket cases and fresh faced beauties bolted to sleep in their bubbles of pantomime glee. I got you.
Ruffled and relaxed mind surfing on stress, caught a wave before his shirt was pressed, pumped iron the night before last, caught eyes before we digressed into nostalgia, a storied face found burried in her chest, smiles couldn’t hide it, the calm before the raging storm, he didn’t have to force it, the rough behind the painted veil.
Over the last weekend I went to a memorial service for two souls who are believed to have lost their mortal lives in the Grenfell Tower fire. Their premature death, or life, depending on how one perceives life and death, has been politicised as is par for the course these ominous days. They have become symbols of the wealth and class disparity in Tory Britain. If one was to reach into conspiracy territory, they are sacrifices for the status quo. I’m aware that it is a loaded perspective and sensitive to speak of such things at this time. I had met the woman at the heart of this trajedy in the weeks prior to the apocalypse that met her and her son, two floors above the ladder’s summit. Her big and beautiful brown eyes held all the mystery and vitality of the Sun that replenishes what the grey of life’s trials is so adept in sucking out of us. I’m also ashamed to admit that I stayed outside during portions of the service for no good reason other than perhaps the trauma of knowing, only to later learn more about what happened in their attempts to escape. It turned out to be far worse than I imagined. And yet to hear that there was a valiant fight in vain to survive and not merely succomb to the flames and poisonous fumes is in keeping with the character of one who had overcome so much, and fought to the end. As of my writing of these words, they have not yet found the body of the mother and child. They will not find their spirits either. Their remains, if found, can not testify of a mother’s love but her story lives in the memories of a transformed life that beat some great odds in earlier chapters. In her final moments it was her faith that stood between her and the figurative September. The new term ceased upon her life like the old enemy it has always been. Death has no friends but faith, hope and love are its foe.
On Monday evening I ventured on my way to one of London’s prettiest cinemas, The Electric on Portebello road, to watch a documentary film about the demise of one of the great vocalists of our time. Along the way I saw posters of the missing people of Grenfell in all kinds of places. I moved between Kensington and Ladbroke Grove and had to stop every so often to look at a face stuck on a highstreet shop window or wall with a name in bold. I was struck by the image of a little girl on a poster attached to a pole. The face of the little girl was open. A blank page of possibility. Then I remembered that on the bus I took to Notting Hill, there was a woman carrying a picture of a girl who looked similar to the one that had caught my attention and brought my footsteps to a halt. I stared at both faces, the one in front of me and the cloudy image in my faltering memory. It may very well have been the same girl. It dawned on me that the woman on the bus might have been out on the streets searching for any strands of information. She was not giving up hope of finding the dead or alive body of a little blank book of a life yet to be written, amidst a seemingly hopeless circumstance. Perhaps in time we who live to remember will reason that the fire stole many lives but it did not consume all of our hope. Pain is timeless but so is the hope that one day pain will be no more. This is the burden we carry from one heartbreak to another, with a wry smile alongside the tracks of our tears.