Remnants of Romance
We come to this epiphany
At some point, along the Grow-Up trail
That romance comes
In glossy books and daydreamed scenes
Fuelled by songs that trill the chords
We can’t play ourselves, but know by heart
Or in that window of still life, the cinema screen, where people are easy
To read, love, decode
Unravel in scarlet ribbons
And take apart, piece by piece, to fit into our
Like a jigsaw torn apart in production
These sunlit shadows are not for us
We ants on rocks who crawl a world
Of chewing-gum on pavement slabs
Lipstick-kiss on cosmetic stickers
We are left the remnants of romance
The last serving
We real people with tried and tired lives
Are left to eat the half-baked dish
That has a messy aftertaste, to clean with cold water, and paint
With the colour we call love.
Product of my Youth
I’ve decided that all the songs are true.
And maybe I’m being stupid
But lately, it seems like
I’m on this bitter see-saw
This ‘toss a coin and heads your dead!’ kind of game.
Flicking through the radio stations
Heavy-metal rage, pop-red love, indy-piano despair
Will come at dawn and play my strings
Til I’m riding this wave I can’t control
And they say not to worry
It is a product of my youth
Sleep more and these rhythms become meaningless, they say
They could be right. But.
They have forgotten, I think, the music in their heads
Perhaps it faded, hasty, on schedule
They woke up one day and it was gone.
Or perhaps they learnt to live with it, and keep it now at lowest volume
Still. I speak my truth, my own
That life today is a furnace of swelling chords
I choke each note and know
That every song I’ve ever heard is true.