I heard talk of a revolution
and I slipped away, embarrassed,
eager to finish my coffee
and to not be branded an enemy
of the state.
“You’re not to discuss
at the dinner table.
It’s not polite.”
What could be conferred,
or could we confer,
or capture in such excruciating
insurgency amongst peas
As my hair and ears grew longer,
So words started dripping;
their warm slow syrup healed wounds
but irritated my ill-at-ease
Slumped and clicking;
baited into another internal guffaw
or a quickly replicated pasting,
insatiate or inglorious or imitating
a stumble upon stairs, and sleep.
And then I woke and some eyes found a voice.
I realised quickly it wasn’t my own
because it was shaking
with an anger, a sadness and pain
of which I wasn’t capable.
And then I rubbed those eyes and found
that it was me making the sound, too;
fury, confusion and hurt sang and struck cold notes
which stung and had to be released.
I am so, so sorry for my lack of courtesy.
Now, when I hear talk of a revolution,
well, I still slip away somewhat embarrassed,
hoping that the surrounding Guy Fawkeses
don’t drop some heavy torn up paving slab on their toeses,
quite as easily as they’ve dropped their aitches.
But now I cannot help but hear a message,
given in a quivering accent
of passion driving them
or me, confused but undoubtedly dissatisfied
out on to a street. Any street.
Without those banging
faceless on the windows,
I’d just be within, staring out.
I don’t want to hear that without is an answer:
It’s something you cannot exist within.
Your questions don’t complete my circle,
nor does my disgust change the way your disdain is drawn,
but the depth of the sound at the centre of your voice
crying through megaphones, deep and cold in the wind,
is a just beginning, for me.