Robert Heath
And the Corner Angels Sang
And the corner angels sang,
something about Descartes
And decisions.
A swift one at the bookies
Or the same at Ronnie’s Bar,
Upon whose step they sat
Eulogising about word shapes
and if it was possible
To impart the mind of God – in a syllable or two.
And the rain had abated but the road was lustred
oil rainbows and petrol blooms
and the corner angels sang about liberty
and the cost of trust
Her hair braided and
The other - eyes heavenward
Mascara and lips all a-pout
And the change gathered like the wages of sin
Little tin at her feet
Like a dutiful dog.
Obedient and lost.
Oh little town of desperation
How sweet we see thee lie
And the corner angels sang
took smiles
And backward glances
soul eaters
Foot tapping to the mantra
Of something other than now
Hark them – their voices
Spitting in the discord
Of another ceaseless day.
Is this it?
That’s the question
and the corner angels know it
Sing of it and ask any God – every God
And all the fractured idols
fallen saints and
Reborn lovers
extinguished lives
And rekindled wives
social mores
And lazy afternoons by the TV
old newspapers from back when
And freestyle runners
soap box preachers
And politicians
Decision makers
And lifelong forsakers
Bar upon bar
Why would anyone choose silence?
© 2013 Robert Heath
Chasing the Trains
It’s not a long walk
just down the cobbled pass and
Then you hook a left and hey –
Little enclave
Chasing the trains.
Never even caught much of a glimpse of one
Except ghosted –
far off down the iron tracks
And that after culminations
A visit to a guy who said he could read minds
Know lives – disassemble jigsaws
Whose pieces were shapeless – void of edges and just stuck
How do you pull apart the infinite?
How do you separate you from yourself?
It’s all cursed.
Leaden and gun-metal grey.
Chasing the trains down to the bottom of a bottle
Never found one but always found
The need to drink another day away
Another train away
Another journey you refuse to make.
Forsaking all others I give my life to the terminal lull
To the sanctity of refusing to care
Of being disinterested in dreams
Or dreaming of being disinterested
Can’t tell
No way of knowing.
© 2013 Robert Heath
Here Comes
And here he comes
Winter’s wrath
String belted – brown bag, dead stars for eyes
Clothes that mesh on his skin
less than colour
a latitude and longitude of grey
He makes a passage with each step yet he has been stationary all these years
Walking on the spot, he’s a grey indicator
To lost battles – empty bottles
And the factory gone
Stability against the storm – just gone
Closed
Sundered by the lull
And it had something to do with profit and loss
Or the wages of sin
Or the language of the capitalist
And he never…
He just drifted
and the woman across the way
Who pegged out her washing and
Tipped him a salacious smile
Back when he was still somebody other than
The someone he is now – when he knew what it meant
To flourish – she left with his old boss
Everyone laid off and they found a new start
Yet he found finding to be impossible
How do you find what you
Never had
© 2013 Robert Heath
A Little Poetry
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