The voice keeps me in check,
a little father in the back of my head.
A curled hard fist to the back of the neck.
The signalman out there watching ahead.
There's nothing wrong with it, you'll see:
we all need a little something to give us shape.
And if you're open I'm sure you'll agree
that life must be dealt with, and never escaped.
The voice is constant, and it makes one laugh
at oneself, at one's humour and spirit.
If it ever grabs hold by the collar or scarf
fight back with vigour and bloody well kill it.
There's nothing ill at work, 'tis nothing to be shamed:
whenever it's at work, listen and act.
For if you don't, you're only to blame,
and that's all there is to it. Matter of fact.
The voice can be heavy, it can draw blood.
It can cough up pure whiskey vomit, charred lung,
the rags of childhood, memories of earth and mud.
But let it show the light: let it be your sun.
No comments:
Post a Comment