Therapeutic Liaisons

I wonder what you think

Of me

If you trust your instinct

Look at my appearance

The affable facade

The urbane refinement,

Ready smile

The way I listen to your every word

Reflect back,

Ask appropriate questions

To ease the conversation

Relax the tension

That can exist in a first meeting

And believe we can be friends.

That I am honest and true

The soul of discretion

Or do I wield sole power

To abuse your trust

Misuse the tidbits you feed me.

Is that what we all do to each other

Eventually

When the veneer of charm

The suave sophistication

With its gentile diplomacy

And dignified elegance

Is peeled away.

Are we paper tigers

Wanting to be trusted

Or do we carry the power

To annihilate

And want to use it.

Am I a place of safety

Somewhere to lay your head

When your world is under siege

A point of difference

When the worst of life

Threatens to bring you down

Or a self-possessed demon

With an eye for a mark

And the world-weariness

Not to give a damn

About the fallout

I might cause.

It is possible,

I can see things clearly

Even for a short time

A telescopic view

Enlarging my heart

For the fight or flight

The inversion

Reducing my connection

To reality

What a difference a day makes

The upside-down nature of existence

Too long too old

The inability to carry out simple things

An inferiority complex

Benefits no one

But the bean counters

Building dependence into self-sufficiency

Cognition is

A time capsule

The sand always runs out

Before the eggs are perfectly cooked

Microscopic differences

Are not always proportionate

Baselines are subjective

What does normal even mean

In a world of managed chaos

Even extraordinary can be accidental

The gift of chance

Not as random as it seems

When one possibility

Is as likely an outcome

As any other.

Forgive my litany

There is no end to the dispute

My intellect is a construct

Dependent on acceptance

From both sides of the divide.

Whatever we might believe.

If you don’t see through my disguise

Of truths laid bare

We will always remain

At opposite ends of the spectrum

Divided by an inversion

Of perception

An economy of scale

There was a time

When a word here,

A look there,

Would have meant the world

But even landscapes change

In time.

There is nothing to keep me now,

Unencumbered by expectation

Reading the lines on a gravestone

Sitting on the grass in the rain

Drinking straight from the bottle

After midnight

When the light from a fridge

Is as cold as the north wind

On Dartmoor

In the deep of December.

Looking for oblivion

Taking a deep dive into night

The scrape of willow

On the window

Is as irritating as it gets

When the mind has wandered

Further than its extension

And the lay of words on paper

Is no more than a ruffle of feathers

To a night bird

Drunk on self-delusion.

How will it feel

To be free of a protestant work ethic

Catholic guilt

The driving force

Of so many unhappy providers.

Lift me up

To thine loving cup,

Would that I could taste the nectar

It most surely holds,

Always a promise but never a reality.

Brush away the crumbs of desire

Left in mockery of what once was

A glimpse of the divine.

Take the hope,

It is a monster

Tear it into shreds

Disperse it evenly

On the waters of tranquillity,

If they can be found.

I gave up the search

So many years ago

When the bloom of youth

Was still forthcoming

And tomorrow was so very far away.

Spread the ashes

Compost the remains

Scatter the thoughts so easily

The air is full of space

Enough to fill the Albert Hall

With blind faith

And chocolate teapots.

Tip a wink to a stranger,

They might remember

What the world was like

Before the landscape changed

And sucking in my stomach

Ceased to be important.

We always sent a postcard

Hunted them down

Chose them, especially

Whether they were for Aunty Jean

Or Uncle John

Some were straight-laced

Panoramic views

Whilst others were quite saucy

And would not be addressed to Grandma.

Sometimes they were posted

From an exotic isle abroad

With only one collection

Every other Thursday

At five past noon

Of course, these rarely arrived

Until after we were home

Boring friends with photographs

Or worse, a showreel.

Nowadays, we overshare online

Missing the irony,

Believing a red heart denotes interest

When it is more than likely

A lazy nod

Whilst looking down one’s nose

In the general direction

Of real connection,

Without actually committing

To any form of human contact.

Whatever happened to philatelists

When the foreign stamps

Dried up?

I remember looking for a Penny Black

As if I ever would have found one

They were worth a fortune

Way back when,

My guess is

That they would be worth as much

As a small country’s whole economy

Lichenstein or Luxemburg

Rich man’s playthings

The lack of nostalgia in wealth

Is just as it always was

Whatever happened to the telegram?

Bakelite?

Nowadays, I rarely send a card

Whether it be from Scarborough

Or Katmandu

The words

Wish you were here

Would only be true

If they were said to you.

I thought I heard you crying,

It was dark

The hall landing half-lit

By a deathly pale moon

Plainly hung, framed like Vincent

Silvery sprinkles scattered

Across the sky

Sprayed like glitter from a huge blowout

Among the ancient gods

The ones we never see

And why would we?

They have enough to do staying relevant

In the modern age

There is a rime of frost on the newell post

At the top of the stairs

The darkness deepens

A black hole

Of stygian proportions

A gaping wound

In an underworld

The window is wide open

A chill has stolen in,

Uninvited,

The smell of the farm on the other side

Of the meadow

Is pervasive.

There is something strangely comforting

In the knowledge

That there is livestock

Just a stone's throw from the house

It reminds me of my children

The petting farm

And miniature railway.

In the distance

Beyond the grazing cattle

Is an old churchyard

Rarely used,

So many people lie awake,

Wander in the dark

Barefoot,

Whilst I stand gazing at the stars

Waiting for permission

To move on.