The Screeching Owl

I got my ass kicked yesterday
by that boxer Cassius Clay
he was lean and he was keen
and his sweet left hook
was really mean.
Oh that man Cassius Clay
he whipped my ass yesterday
that boxer Cassius Clay
he whipped my ass yesterday.
He teached me a lesson
that I’ll never forget
when he broke my ribs
and cracked my head.
That boxer Cassius Clay
that mean motherfucker from across the way
that boxer Cassius Clay
he whipped my ass yesterday
he whipped my ass and he cracked my head
and I very nearly ended up dead.

Welcome to the real world
A world with no heroes
action or otherwise
just fat politicians
spewing mouthfuls of lies
of hookers and drugs
and millenium bugs
and riots and diets
and gangs in favellas

of Los Angeles Lakers
and unemployed bakers
and crooks who’d do anything
for a couple of acres.

A world full of villains
but also of kings
who joke and smile and make living worthwhile
who aren’t well known or famous
or featured in papers
but laugh at crude puns
about a couple of achers.

The world is made up
of fabulous bakers
and crooks, towtrucks, mountains of books
and Los Angeles Lakers
the humble and famous
movers and shakers
givers and takers
and the farmers who farm
their couple of acres.

Going through the park
on a summer’s day
a torn off branch
lay across the path
barring the way.
It confused him
and alarmed him;
he felt that it could harm him.
He stood there
ripping his shirt sleeve
trying to force his bike
through the leaves.
So I took him
and hugged him to close to me
and that’s when I
could finally see.

Because I felt his sadness.

Going through he park
on an autumn day
the leaves had begun
to fall away.
From a bench
I sat and watched their descent.
It was then that I turned
and saw him.
I’d been in New York
for the last few months
trying to lose myself
in some lustful thrusts.
But it only made the world seem sadder
and nothing seemed to matter.
I approached him then
and tried to help him
so I stabbed his chest
repeatedly.

And I killed his sadness.

So it’s all over now.
All over now.
All over now.
It’s all over now.

On a winter’s day
the sun was low
and I was lying
in the snow.
Feeling things
I’d never felt before
on my way through Death’s door.

I’d been killed by sadness.

They descend on the ground
like bringers of death
a symbol, a sign, a reason to cry
cawing and squawing with their every breath

Jet black wings, ragged as cloth,
guide them on their way
to the land of the Lost
cawing and squawing and swooping and flying
over the houses where people are dying.

Their beaks, sharp and crooked,
their talons like needles
the endless crescendo of their horrible noise.
They gather in trees, on branches and wires,
and oversee all through their inked out eyes.

They descend on the ground
like bringers of death,
a symbol, a sign, a reason to cry.
Carrion birds, sating their hunger,
cawing and squawing with their every breath.

Carrion birds with no sense of heartache,
a fatal attraction to bloodshed and death.
In the trees on a morning,
the sound of their cawing,
is the rattling noise of the Reaper’s first breath.

I stand alone
in the middle of the square
naked and staring up
into the clear blue sky.
Somewhere in the distance
larks sing a chorus
as the only sound to disturb the morning.
I know it is a dream
but at the same time
it doesn’t feel like one.
I stand and raise my arms
towards the sky
higher and higher and higher
until my fingertips graze
a passing cloud.
It begins to rain.
At this moment a woman joins me
moving silently
gracefully. She looks just like Eve
straight from the Bible
complete with snake
tattooed around her thigh with head resting
on her knee.
She takes me by the elbow
and leads me up a poplar lined path
to a house I don’t recognise.
I watch her long auburn hair sway
hypnotically between her shoulder bladers
and drink in the curves of her body
feeling a familair but forgotten stirring
begin to warm my loins.
Then into a bedroom
white sheets and soft pillows.
She stands close to me
arms looped around my neck.
And we become one.

Back in celibate reality I am again alone.
I walk into the kitchen
and mechanically gather together the paraphernalia
to make myself a cup of English tea.
Tea that will inevitably sit
forgotten about
and turn cold.
I recall the dream that accompanied me
during my hours of repose.
Women are strange.
I say that because the woman in my dream
was one that I know.
A woman who quickly slipped into my life
and slipped out again even quicker
although lately she has been lingering
in the passageways of my mind.
She was half Ukranian
curvaceous
tall
beautiful.
Yet ultimately
boring
and annoying.
But now
after ties were severed
she has again returned to my mind
as unwanted as Banquo’s ghost at the feast.
Another unwelcome thought to lament on.

A look into the mirror reveals
worryingly thick black and purple rings
lining my eyes. Sleep deprived.
Exhausted mentally rather than physically
which is worse in a lot of ways.
Drained.
Stress diagnosed by dentists and hairdressers.
Feelings of nausea.
A sip of the tea.
The rest poured down the drain.
I watch it spiral away
mingling with the green stream
of mouthwash.
A final adjustment of a poorly tied tie
half Windsors still escape me.

An orange is easily peeled.
The smell of the zest coats my fingers
as I plunge the succulent flesh into my mouth.
Enter the pit of Sarlacc.
The nutrients do you good.
Increase your vitality.
Although blackcurrants contain more vitamin c.
Perhaps oranges are over-rated.
Life is so much easier when you’re getting high.