A suitable case for treatment

I left the house of childhood
In a coat of black porcupine quills
I had a builder’s brick to chew on
I came from the cement floor of the new crematorium build
I crawled into the hedge like a slug

It was the sun on a cold day
Not a kiss, not a hand to hold, not an embrace
But the sun on a cold day
That made me cry for my

Lonely skater on the ice rink of a dream
Of a crushed matchbox
With a soul inside that had no eyes

It was the sun on a cold day
A replacement for
Bubbles and froth and mumbled baby words
Taken like bits of cheese by rats in a slum
Into the human shadows of hunger

And that was that
They removed the food from my plate
And substituted dead flies
They pushed me under the factory machine
Like a gum wrapper

I began to search for a name
For the sunshine on a cold day
For its tepid heat against my tears

And that was that
I was promoted to the dole queue
In the sun on a cold day

Jag lämnade barndomens hus
I ett skikt av svart Porcupine spolar
Jag hade en byggmästare tegel att tugga på
Jag kom från cementgolvet i den nya krematorium bygga
Jag kröde in i häcken som en snigel
Det var solen på en kall dag
Inte en kyss, inte en hand att hålla, inte en omfamning
Men solen på en kall dag
Det fick mig att gråta för min
Lonely skater på isbanan i en dröm
Av en krossad tändsticksask
Med en själ inuti som inte hade några ögon
Det var solen på en kall dag
En ersättning för
Bubblor och skum och mumlade baby ord
Tas som bitar av ost av råttor i ett slummen
I människans skuggor av hunger
Och det var att
De bort maten från min tallrik
Och substituerade döda flugor
De sköt mig under fabriken maskinen
Som ett tuggummi omslag
Jag började söka efter ett namn
För solskenet på en kall dag
För sin ljummet värme mot mina tårar
Och det var att
Jag befordrades till Dole kö
I solen en kall dag

मैंने बचपन का घर छोड़ दिया
काले साही quills के एक कोट में
मैं एक बिल्डर की ईंट पर चबाना था
मैं नए श्मशान निर्माण के सीमेंट मंजिल से आया था
मैं एक स्लग की तरह बचाव में रेंगते
यह एक ठंडे दिन पर सूरज था
नहीं एक चुंबन, नहीं एक हाथ पकड़, नहीं एक गले लगाने के लिए
लेकिन एक ठंडे दिन पर सूरज
कि मुझे मेरे लिए रोना
एक सपने के आइस रिंक पर अकेला स्केटर
एक कुचल माचिस की
अंदर एक आत्मा के साथ कि कोई आंखें थी
यह एक ठंडे दिन पर सूरज था
के लिए एक प्रतिस्थापन
बुलबुले और झाग और मुंहासों बच्चे के शब्द
एक झुग्गी बस्ती में चूहों द्वारा पनीर के बिट्स की तरह लिया
भूख के मानव छाया में
और वह था कि
उन्होंने मेरी थाली से खाना हटा दिया
और मृत मक्खियों को प्रतिस्थापित किया
उन्होंने मुझे फैक्ट्री मशीन के नीचे धकेल दिया
एक गम रैपर की तरह
मैं एक नाम के लिए खोज करने के लिए शुरू किया
ठंड के दिन धूप के लिए
मेरे आंसुओं के खिलाफ अपनी गुनगुना गर्मी के लिए
और वह था कि
मैं डोले कतार में पदोन्नत किया गया था
ठंड के दिन धूप में

The scar

It came to me, my unreasonable fear
that I have been burdened with for many a year.
My fear of falling, the small white scar:
My fear of loving, why I’ve kept afar
The times I’ve started awake or couldn’t fall
asleep, to rest, to wake refreshed, loved. That’s not all
that scar I bear, I’ve born for many a year
it seems to have been there before I was here.
A small white scar upon my side
could it be the reason for why I’ve cried
like a waterfall for those psychological years of being alone
or the nightmares where my tongue turned to stone
and if I fell I would die and live again
born up from the ground
then repaired and the clock set to begin its cycle
ticking away in the silent darkness while Michael
sleeps as a tiny baby in the windowsill
and wakes and falls and falls and falls until
the clock stops in the murderous night
and the baby Michael bleeds light
the glass is removed from the shaking flesh
by strangers, fearful strangers who couldn’t care less.
But I fall into the street through a windowpane
and from a babies unconscious mind into an injured sleep did it drain
all information from my brain
of love, care, future, security, wiped out by the pain.
Then through the years of darkness hidden
the babies hurt, its cries hidden
its falling in and out of love
its falling down, its looking up alone
its jumping feet upon the imaginary ground
its crying, its forgetting, its knowledge woven with the sound
of breaking glass and falling and crashing down.
A fall that haunts and hurts and comes around
like the flash of a dragons tail upon my head
to startle me awake from the old lumpy bed
And who picked me up, who loved me on that day
and why did the shadow of the accident never go away?
When the war was five years over, peace was declared
Armistice came and went and people dared
to breathe the air freely and forget very nearly
that life resumed its path into the cold grey light

I have a small white scar caused by falling out of a window as a baby

Song: Neglected Boy

The neglected boy

He really doesn’t know
Is there
Love across the ocean
Love across the sea
Doesn’t seem to be waiting
Anywhere near me

You really don’t know
What you’re doing
Do you?
I mean
You’ve got your orders
You’ve got your papers
To complete

But after spending
All day at your desk
You get out into the street
And there’s something
In the sunshine
That overwhelms you

The neglected boy

It has no north or south
No sun or moon
It has no eyes or mouth
And it thinks outside
Of its balloon

That’s all you know

Neglected boy



A partial Music sheet in PDF
Neglected Boy 1



A partial music sheet in PDF
Neglected Boy 2


Alone in the Shoe Repair Shop

Alone in the shoe repair shop
The child becomes a spider
Who carries an anvil
Behind the shop counter
That becomes a crippled clotheshorse
That gallops amongst piles of shoes’
In the unlit workroom
Where the smell of leather
Is as slick as a tin of Brasso
That spills over a box of rubber heels
Where the smudges of wax polish
Like burn marks are branded
In the cobblers heart of shoe leather

Alone in the Shoe Repair Shop
Another shoe jumps
Onto the upturned iron foot
As cobwebs cover the dead child
Who rolls in the eye of the cobbler
Who fills his mouth with tacks
While bleeding from his feet
Whose socks are bedraggled lions
Tearing the carcass of the rent man
Who rolled on the floor in flames
After a bible thumped against a door cupboard
Where old hammers are stored
In cake tins along with bankruptcy
That walks in the army boots
Of a Methodist preacher that echo
In a parade ground in France

Alone in the shoe repair shop
The child is split in two by a cuckoo
That turns into a Football Pools lady
As shoes fly at the clock-face
Carrying bags of nails
That dam up the floods of tears
Of the small child looking for a seat
Amongst the generation gap of black machinery
That dribbles oil and grease
Into the eye of a dead bantam cock
That pulls a Wellington boot
From a plague of birds in the fireplace

Alone in the Shoe Repair shop
The small child is a shattering windowpane
Where the distant sound of a town
Is falling into an orphan’s nursery rhyme
And fills the empty street outside
With powder puffs and nail varnish
As the tram cars whistle by
A tune like a broken pitch pipe
As girlie books fall from the thundercloud
That opens an old budgie cage
Hanging from a weeping willow tree

Alone in the shoe repair shop
Where the darkness drips like magnetism
Into the grimy sink
As earth worms cover the machinery
That becomes the loss of a dead bird
Who sings itself to death
In the lap of the lonely child
Who followed it into oblivion
Where a dragon lived in an old shoe
In a bowl of mashed potato

Alone in the Shoe Repair shop
The thick canvas machine belts
Rotate the earth
Beneath an avalanche of worn shoes
Piling up in the toy cupboard
As darkness falls on the street outside
As Christmas stuffs a chicken with a nightmare
That turns the small child into granite
And runs away from there
Into mists of forgetfulness