Summertime (and the leaving is easy) aka PTSDVSNPD*

 

The air is grey with barbecue fuel, choking the drivers on the roads

Kerosene chicken drummer surprise

Cruel summer Bacardi breezes 

People running from the North

 

92 degrees fahrenheit at the death of an errant night in town 

Ice cold blooded demon rising from the melting tarmac, walking on boiling fire water

Drinking the lightning and the beck's fear; hot under the shirt and burning slow.

Soon lit tempers flare as time flutters by 

 

And so it starts to get a bit Harry Potter

Three war torn soldiers start running

Like grey hounds

A woman runs in her slippers and a door gets broken in

 

Someone has got to do something

Someone is going to get killed it seems

So you amble like a gung-hover cowered coward

To the other side of the road with one of their friends beside you

 

You shall surely see shell shock waves from a fist on these streets 

Skipping blind drunk on cool summer rain sucker punch from 'the scum of the earth' 

Thundering in by the 'abominable desert heath'

We're all looking for an oasis tribute band

 

While Freyja and the valkyries sit on a nearby hill

Too sensible to venture into this town on this night

A byrnie wasn't drenched in blood

Just bells ringing in his ears

 

Soles maybe made with rubber from Songkhla connected to the earth

A handy RBC railing - some Judo knows how to stand

And much head banging in my younger years

Maybe prevent some stamp collecting in the bloody way

 

By the black gunpowder tree shot

People who should live in glass houses throwing fists so 

Miffed, you bolt towards the darker edgelands

A hero isn't supposed to try and save a distressed dragon 

 

Putting friends at risk

Not saving anyone from anything

No sympathy from A&E and police - 999 rings out**

And so to bed.

 

* - an expanded and inferior version of this poem.

** - the person whose phone I used to check the police were aware of the incident was later contacted by the police and accused of wasting police time / services.

 

Place De L'Eglise 

 

I will leave you worn down 

Like a sculpture just finished off

Like a ruin standing in a sandstorm

Like a persistent and hacking cough

 

I will leave you shining

Like diamonds in a jeweller’s shop

Like a nice and healthy suntan

Like a new metal spinning top

 

I will leave you broken

Like a chick’s egg that's just hatched  

Like a window smashed by a vandal

Like a chain that’s become unattached

 

I will leave you laughing

Like a person who chooses to laugh

Like a hyena that’s got the giggles

Like a baby enjoying a bath

 

I will leave you dancing 

Like a new born lamb in Spring

Like a prisoner on his release

Like Ali in the boxing ring

 

I will leave you in silence

Like the last mourner at a grave

Like the desert in the midday sun

Like a distant goodbye wave

 

I will leave you gasping

Like a pepper spray attack

Like a fish that’s out of water

Like a panic attack on crack 

 

Dream Coat of Arms

 

As I cycle up these rough hills in the shower of death

Seeing a devil, games of war and ravens

"Virtus Sola Nobilitas" was not for Chickens of Mars 

Skalding cold black water 

Heralding a time flowing back into the Blackwaters

Hunting for an important ancestor 

This time along Dad's line

Armed only with an ego

A bag of rubbish

And a fly in the nose of Arthur Wellesley

The rain drops on the canvas outside

Sounding like the machine guns over the common

"Hoarsemen" dancing to their own "apolkaloops"

All too common as old Miss spelling out the

Curses of Rathlin and elsewhere

Or just bad luck of the Anglo-Irish

His trees hidden and his land

Ghosts of a Norn iron Gest

Eggy, bred under Norman yolks?

Soldiers, 'holy men', writers and politicians

Sir names, Northmen and nurses

Bearded ladies and faeries

Froyled again on Friday

Lil' Lord 'Bad' Macbreth

Just trying to live like a Rake of Mallow

Was the (Protestant) "man from the big house who had a relationship with a servant,

then was cast out of his family" anything more than a story? 

No Sancho, no Rozinante

No nights of the bath or garter to speak of recently

No evidence for anarchaic ignoble heritage

Examined with a large post-concussed free lance forehead

Conducting genetic research 

Gazing hungover into a switched off computer screen

Another possible clue staring me in the face

While an army helicopter roars above

Family, stories, myths and misreadings of the

Nothing that is known of her story before marriage

Gets a bit Irish misty c.1820

But a lot of history is learnt

Whiteboys and imperial standards

Armada with a Drake then the cold meat train home

Guesswork and onomastics

A peasant visitor sitting in my folly on open day in Sussex

Falling through a corrugated iron roof onto a shrine to my ancestors 

Total reikall? Barking; and up the wrong branch of the family tree?

Or just a Shire Berk's peer into the past ages