Inter generational trauma
The Mother said, it is true that
I am better in the evening,
the morning energy was virulent,
harnessed to limbic structures,
A ferrel appendage to an otherwise perfect facade.
So, when the time comes make sure
you create something solid,
which will sit there at the table with you in the evening,
as a truth known to itself.
Not as a vessel to be teased with life
Drip drip dripping uncertainty in increments ,
A gradually rising tide.
Instead see from the start
A childs mistakes are empty ,
we are inherently good.
Or risk creation of a visceral vacant lot
whose body holds a catalogue of despair-
So when the ball is thrown at them,
they absorb the form as it
bounces in side, scattering thoughts,
vibrating here and what came before.
Past and present clattering together
reminding them only of now
and what they are in this moment
There in the past.
A Bus Ride
I slip up the stairs and
cosy into the corner of the seat
right at the front of the,
number 4 to Archway.
A private smile embraces
the face of my front of bus comrade.
I revel in my achievement
without the children.
Islington High Street now switching to
electric to prepare
proper hamburgers in a building
with genuine wear and tear
A building with birth marks,
inscriptions of truth like a face in its ninetieth year,
it holds a memory
like the steps of the town hall
Highbury Corner and buildings rise ,like stalactites,
reflecting back on themselves and each other
so this one is that one
and that one is over there
A man with sideburns that frame
his jawline is chewing frantically,
in his wait for the bus,
Back within, a bassline of “yes big brother”
in rhythm with the urgency
Of the foreign lyric from the backseat
The chorus to another world
in harmony with butterflies released
from the man who drums his entire journey
into his legs so the energy loops from within
Out and in, out and in.
Looking out ,so many houses fill the space,
Saintly schools on a precipice,
Expressions of a journey,
4 to Archway.