“From Bow Street to Bethlehem…” Says the Girl in the Candyfloss Dress, Speaking in Welsh About Stormclouds

by on October 16, 2023 :: 0 comments

You’re weak, I’m weak, that ex-cop four doors down whose son died swimming in the Euphrates,
he’s chicken-shit helpless, I mean so helpless
what could we do but egg his door every Halloween?
He was 43 years old when his son died swimming in the Euphrates.
There’s a photograph online of David Jansen in 1974, he’s 43, he looks 18 years more.
David Jansen drowned in rivers made of skull-crack mud and bitches’ brew,
he felt it would rise him above this banal traffic light sorrow
where a city blue sings his blues,
directs traffic across no visible river,
hearing low-fi electro folk cause trouble in dried-out clouds.
We filled a hole with that boy’s soul on the hillside
born soon after we became a Republic,
we should be looking up at Hell from where we are,
we’ve allowed ourselves to sink so low,
more pressing things though
include how that storm is coming, driving Harlech’s steeds like toothless beasts
from the bible, so at odds with how beautiful the Celtic Goddess looks,
far from New York City’s shrapnel-knitted stiffs.
This is what we say when we mean serendipitous,
we may be short of the Mark sometimes when we speak,
that’s ok, Matthew, Luke and John seem to take us with a sack of salt

editors note:

A gospel withdrawn from a cloud bank. – mh clay

Leave a Reply