My past is catching up with me,
watching minutes pass like dogs,
each one sensing a different yard
or corner to scramble down
or scuttle into. And I’m
in the shadowiest part of the bar
staring at ink stains
on every one
of my fingers,
and I’m hot and flushed
and unfinished,
which is disturbing and ruinous
and sexy as all hell.
And I’ve got an hour to kill.
And there’s no knowing why
these things tick away like this,
when there isn’t a ghost of a chance
nor hint of a prayer
about what’s been buried or burnt
lived here – lived there
when all the walls, doors and hedges
are as close as a street away,
and my past is catching up with me –
stares straight back in the mirror
with a look that could turn
a hearse up an alleyway –
and I’ve got blood in my eye,
blood on the brain
and I’m feeling fine – really fine
for your information,
fine and average
and way too sane.
Phil Bowen
Picture Rupert Loydell
.