The Butcher sits and takes your gold.
Up on Baker Street he sits and takes your gold.
Has no interest in your conversation or your porous soul;
He will just complete the job and take your gold.
An abscessed tooth or broken bone?
Sit on his chair, naked feet on bare stone.
You may feel a little weak, and you may feel a little cold,
But it will all end soon and he will take your gold.
And he will gather up the teeth and bits of bone
And once again he’ll try to make his body whole.
His empty shell which once contained his soul
Which all those years ago he learnt to pawn for gold.
Who else would sell their midnight and their Sunday soul?
Or you can go and queue up with the outside world.
They queue in pain for days, I’m told.
I’d rather end it soon and let him bleed me cold.
And you may scream the stillborn scream
And you may shut your eyes and try to wake the dream
And you might thrust your hand out in defiance
Or roar the roar of wounded giants –
But you won’t get your loved one back,
Or turn the grinning terror back
Or slow the fleeting second into precious minutes
Or turn those dying numbers into winners.
Alas, this clay may never turn to gold.
There’s no more magic in this world.
And there’s no god to interfere
To smite your enemies with love and fear,
At least not such a god, and not like that,
And no such devil either, for a’ that –
However many souls you offer
To put into their empty coffers.
Forgive me friend, but truth be told,
There is no quick salvation in this world.
And afterwards your daydreams will devour
What you’d had done with all those special powers
Or what you’d tell the grinning idiots the next time round.
But will it differ next time round?
You could be left there standing just the same
Your mouth will mouth those silent words again…
So come my friend we must be bold.
There is no easy answer to this world.
… I want to soar at speed across the valley and embrace it in one single gasp.
It stretches out beneath and in front and I strain to fill its depth and breadth.
But I know I need to descend slowly and on foot,
and hope that I can grasp a mere part
from pebbles, clumps of grass I see along the way –
And hope that I can still look up occasionally
from my stumbling feet
to see the horizon.
– 0 –
Some read into my lines.
Some think I’m getting old.
Some think, to faithless barons
My faithful heart I sold.
Some think I’m like the others
All mired in shit and gold,
With wistful eyes recalling
Oh! the heady days of old…
For sure, the city lights
Delight in me no more
And youth’s so sweet delights
Are now another’s chore.
Much simpler daily pleasures
Comprise my daily bread
As morning crickets measure
The seasons shifted red.
But still I fly with naked muses
I still enjoy the spoils of love
I carve out time from daily toils
To carve my legacy above.
I draw up maps to secret beaches
And harness winds and waves
I take my leave of lords and masters – and
Walk free among the slaves.
I see right through those pretty veils,
I see the worlds out there are many.
I know no single truth prevails –
But I’m at home with any.
I’ll take into my pantheon
Whatever gods I feel
As long as they all answer to
The one god that is real.
I write between the lines.
My friends are getting old.
And every fucker’s trying to get
His teeth into my soul.
And Father Time is getting cute
And Lady Luck’s on hold;
But me, I break into the hour-glass
And take those grains of gold.
I break another hour glass
And store those grains of gold.