I’ve got my favourite t-shirt on
Wearing my sunglasses
Leaning against the wall
Listening to that northern drawl
Some of them recognise my face
A little stunned
As I seem to be changing at a fast pace
But then they remember
They haven’t seen me in a while
For a while they thought maybe I’d left
This little place
But now they see me and wonder
Where has he been?
He’s one of them lads from that special facility
Ya can tell something aint right with him
Wonder what it is
They say to their wives and husbands
When they return home with Buster
The conversation soon forgotten
As am I, till they see me again
Just dawdling on by
writing
Guitar collector
Sitting in a room full of guitars
Tried to pluck those strings
But never got far
With each new wave of enthusiasm
A newly stringed gal
Became my favourite pal
Now i’m trapped in a room
Full of new wooden pals
Waiting to be heard
With not a musical bone left in me
To play to the birds
Arrival
We’re out of the calm
Damned with repentance
walking through eternal mists
Lighting candles so we can see
The horror of our adoration
Repugnantly sweet
Liquid cruelty
Limpid brown eyes
Gazing through cadavers
Cutting through the charming herd
Carefully plucking up the nerve
To resemble arrival
I’m back with a new blog, so what better post to start it all off again than a poem I wrote, appropriately titled “Arrival”
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 