Brian Purcell #21 City Ghost

                         City Ghost

                                    I

To transform the city, we write about it

the poet’s desk in the sinking basement

the window on the ceiling framing the sky

as the legs

of aching commuters struggle by

while tubers crawl wild from the walls like lovers

embracing for the last time as the morning

resists the command to wake

the poet picks between plaster for a pen

in his mind

the shattered masonry falls

all the time

in every darkness the light breaks

and brakes so we do not see

the seconds shake our pale awareness

the hive of lights is quenched

as the suffering masses pick through the stench

of their nocturnal wanderings and wipe away

the tears of dawn so they may

bet on futures that won’t come to anything

but the pay will fill their shaking hands

within the house of this hanged man

                                    II

In the house of the hanged man

others arrive

and tear themselves apart

like ethereal cattle

but no-one dies

can’t you see the truth

where there is no other?

can’t you see the life

the love in their eyes?

There is no other

do not bother

your automatic impulse

reaching out for answers

this will not do

this smoking gun

this tarred flesh

let go these emotions

the fire inside you

look to another

it’s all you can do

don’t ask her for answers

my pockets are empty

to wait for them to fill

is pointless

don’t be so shrill

there will be others –

they won’t be you

                                    III

it begins with some old guy

frying an egg

and extracting a gem

from what he would throw away

the day is like a needle

pricking out some design

you will never understand

the hanged man knew

and that’s why…

I did not and will never know

anything about him

but that he died so we could live

and the angry old sun

could keep shining

on this dunghill

so the old guy

could keep complaining about his varicose veins

or what some kid said to him

while wagging school –

that it was all going to shit

while he extracted a gem

from the mess in the sink

and the smell of burning

grease and oil…

but he knows

the angry old sun

down it goes

leaving pinpricks

of light in the darkness

nearly washed away

by the ghosts of the city

that rise helplessly

into the night

among the dark mess

of words on the floor