hachete's Journal: Entry

A small room painted institutional green:
a radiator murmurs, no windows.
I long for a cigarette. Long for a cigarette.
The little man in the darkness keeps asking questions about Spain.
Occasionally, his neat hands appear in the light,
playing with a reservoir pen, sometimes making notes.
Now he's talking about Spain. I know my mouth
is making a thin line. So hard not to. About stretcher bearers.
At the foot of the ridge,
by the blasted shrubs, lie bodies, a burning cart
and a braying donkey. Now stopping, then braying.
I pledge, religiously. Spain was a youthful indiscretion.
Some boys get drunk. My friends? Oh, the usual crowd. Punting
on a sunny afternoon, horseplay on the Cam. Tennis
then tea on Sundays. Their names?
My cigarette dangles. I watch the divers
brilliant bow connect the shimmering water.

S...h...a...n...k...l...y

I'm a simple poet, whose orbit
is merely an A4 block of paper P...a...i...s...l...e...y
You fall in with the wrong crowd,
they give you more credit than you deserve....
S...o...u...n...e...s...s Those lyrics?
They were just drafts. They're soon corrected.
H...o...u...l...l...i...e...r...That sailor in Berlin?
No. I never knew any sailors. Only nice people.

D...a...l...g...l...i...s...h

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