Atlantic coast

the kind of campsite

where if you don’t hear the roar

of the trees the pines

you hear the surf night & day

the season was closing fast

everybody local had gone away

when I found him in the shadows

he told me he was travelling

with jesus

hoping to find his way

between here & Santiago

& those I asked are your plans?

more for fear for him

with winter closing in

as I noticed jesus had not provided shoes

a tent winter coat or map

& he sighed long & low

like this question was raised by everybody

by fools who did not know

the lord is here with us now

he said smiling again

who needs shoes on holy ground?

& all I could see were shadows

stones & sand

a scruffy dirty traveller

standing alone

questioning just who

was the mad one

here

cuckoo

being the

smuggled bird in the nest

my mother ran away

when I was a toddler

& later they told me

as if that was not enough

I was not my fathers son

leaving me the cuckoo

struggling in their nest

an orphan with parents

doing their best

to convince me

that I was the mad one

the cuckoo bird

that didn’t belong

pain eternal

there through the window pane

you watch them hobble about their day

the sad mad bad what I never had faces

gnawing away at pieces of suffering

their pain losses & unwanted gains

eating away until there is nothing left

of themselves & you could tell them

if you were the sadistic enough unkind

you are masters of your own destiny

with a wicked glint in your eye

a pocket with a knife or a gun

to defend your Disney offences

for they will & fucking well should

bright sharp daggers drawn come for you

here is pain & nothing but the shame of it

missing brothers mothers sisters lovers

addictions to the booze gambling drugs

wire writhing deep in the blood

lovers who took the children away

left them cold outside church shoe box

where such simple words gain no traction

but ocean deep black misunderstood

hope here can be nothing more than a dangle rope

pain begins the morning informs its skies

will never end not even after darkness

though your pious technicolour sunset portends

another new day of pain passing between friends

on for ever & ever & ever amen

counting all limbs

going mad with grief

playing the same songs over & over

finding comfort between the words

the sounds

nobody died

but some alternate

who you might have been

could have been

if of course

you were not you

had not fucked something

someone

up again

& the process takes time

coming back to you

counting all limbs

ability to breathe

get up in the a.m.

& start over again

it is never impossible

too late to turn around

oh yes