The Cairo Express to Limehouse

Strange wind tearing the clouds apart

A strange wind is tearing the clouds wing
It snaps the light like a violin string
The sun walks in striding over a chair
Asking for a whistle and a loud fun fair

My head is turning like a big windmill
My eyes are hailstones like shiny white pills
The strange wind carries me on a silver tray
Up and down the diner of the melted day

As birds with shock hairdos are blown across the way

The Cairo Express to Limehouse

My hair is made of millions of dead sparrows
Why is the day so shallow?
who stole the rainbow coral of the imagination?
who sank paving stones in the canal?
who tied my heart to a concrete block and sank it deep into the grieving soul
grieving for dances with angelic girls
grieving for bedrooms filled with white cockatoos
grieving for cupids arrow from a Sam Cook song
grieving for the rising of the Gihon fountain

rising out of a rock in the back garden
imagine that
rising out of the old school playground
rising like an ice flow that arches between the dreaming sleeping head of my first love to mine
Instead, my hair is a million dead sparrows
killed by pollution and washed out down the drain.

I’m searching, but have I got time today

I’m searching, but have I got time today
I’m searching, so is there hope?
I’m searching the hobgoblins eye of humour
that I swallowed with a glass of water,
when tears fell mingled with blood
surrounding a small crucified boy with
the shadows that hang from a wolves mouth.

If you go for so long without love
–   love comes to you in a dream
– – love comes to you secretly and plants its hope in your soul
– – love thrives like an aquarium at the back of your soul
– – love hammers at the dead parts of your brain like a wolf boy.

Laughter isn’t that the up escalator in the tube station of anguish
Laughter isn’t that the formation of ivory keys in the dungeon of silence
Laughter isn’t that the prize that archaeologists dig or
Laughter isn’t that the sounds of a million dead sparrows in my hair.

Prime Minister

Prime Minister
is there time
is there time for the work force
to put down their tools
and practice Buddhism in a Chinese square;
is there time
for the workers
to put down their dockets
and join the Frenchmen
in the cafes of lovers talk;
to browse the libraries of the ancient mind;
follow the funeral through the forests of light;
Prime Minister – is there life?

Prime Minister
did you wonder why music has become so manic?
the mania represents people who resent not having any time.

Like a black spaceship pickup truck

like a black spaceship pickup truck
carrying the moon across the ocean of childhood light
the hospital wards of memory
where holes are smashed into walls by blood soaked soldiers

memory wraps up each old day in a dark silken chrysalis
hides them in a dungy smelling room that seems to be a lift
that plummets into bowels of the earth

all my days
memory, what have you done to them?

Come all you ancient kings and queens

come all you ancient kings and queens
I have what you are looking for
the river of life
in my back garden.

come all you alchemists and film stars
I have what you want
the river of life in my back garden
tasting of cold silk and magic.

to all you departed Pharaohs and millionaires
can you move now from your creaking tombs
can you move your creaky bones and squeaky coffins
and come into my back garden.

catch the Cairo express to Limehouse
look for the angels and the gold tinsel hanging in the sky
where the battalions of the dead of the first world war
have amassed in the sky singing songs and awaiting their turn

come amongst the buttercups and the ragged robin
where a bird planted the seeds of the stinking iris
where the wind grew sycamore seedlings and scented Buddlias
come to my back garden, come to the river of life

Author: blackbird212012

I am interested in multimedia work: songwriting, art, and creative writing. I have been involved also in theatre and music performances.

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