by Lindsay McLeod
those days when I had that chain of users
tight about my ankles pulling me down
pushing the reason overboard for fun
zero to zed in seconds, hoppers and plaguers
driven underground where goofs jumped
to Radio Birdman down the front
while monitors showed Sissy twirling
the baton like a pro way back in ’77.
Those really were the days man, the days.
But the music stopped
when I stepped from
beneath our fever dreams
back into my own likelihood.
There was in my red earthed shadow
the scent of the dog across me,
a thorn in the paw of that silence
that refused to be ignored, where
only I belonged to the absence
and the absence belonged to me.
