Tag Archives: Sean Lavery

A Fateful Firing

The sound comes
to you like a song.
A faded paragraph,
carefully rolled over.
Let it incubate.
That soft shoe stroller.
Tap dancing down the stairs.
Fate that’s all it is.
A fateful firing of neurons.
Experiments in free words.
Shadowboxing in the dark.
It will come to you.
Just give it time.
And room to breathe.
The sound comes
as a quickened step.
Keeping pace a steady.
A soft shoe shuffle.
Rapping on a theme.
Joining hands and giving
thanks to all those dancers.
The strollers.
The shufflers.
The magnetic gazers.
The choice is yours.


A Hole the Size of You

Mexico is inside the moon.
Down at home.
Hope at large.
Fly me to a thousand bedrooms.
Turn a key.
Enter the room.
Manchester is far from gone.
And the music ….
rises through the floor.
Theres a hole the size of you,
sinking in my heart.
A small sparkle hiding.
Hold me close like a treasured gift.
Take one small step back.
And breath.
Then tell me what you really think.


The Last Lap of the Losers

The saffron dangers.
The deadbeat rangers.
The last lap of the losers.
The cinema shark.
The time lag before.
The empty shell.
The ricochet down.
The seats reserved,
for someone else.
The last lap of the losers.


Precipitation

Power off.
Time for bed.
A likelihood of
cloud or showers.
Not quite April,
May or June.
Just the time
of the year –
its supposed
to sun shine.


That Shoplifting Vibe

During the afternoon.
A shop assistant follows.
Do I look that ragged?
A vagrant out shopping.
A little hirsute, maybe.
In strange shapeless
shoes and light blue.
If I’d dressed in black,
would that shoplifting
vibe not hang about
my person.
Will she believe me
when I say –

There is nothing in your store
worth stealing.

Not a single nondescript
scrap of cotton.
Not a shirt, suit or jacket.

And there I go,
out the door.
Undragged and uncomfortable.
Public enemy #1.
Trailing the colourful vapour
of that shoplifting vibe.


Doncaster

Men fly about you.
Like moths,
smoking opium.
Gently fluttering
in the pale light.
That was the year
I travelled,
back and forth.
North to South.
Living on railway food.
While green fields pass.
Nothing changes
during this dream time.
The trains are either late,
or never coming.
The government lurches,
from one crisis to another.
And you keep me waiting.
On cold platforms.
With a soft handset glow
for company.
At Doncaster,
always Doncaster –
the murmur of the train
is so pleasing.
So soporific,
that I join the others.
Circulating in the pale light.
Floating on a current
of rarified air.


April 14th

It’s dead out here.
There’s more life
in a petrol station.
The folks of Formosa,
with spindly legs,
have staggered home.
It was all about
the angle of the sun.
An undue commotion,
caused in some
town square bar.
Careering out of
nowhere another bruiser
synchronises with a
cold wind a blowing.
A black hole.
Event horizon.
Seen from space.