Jonathan Beale

That thin blue line

He judders temporarily
until falling into steady rhythm.
Frowning through the slow minutes
Paul Tristram

The police came a calling
With questions they’d ask
Answered before –decision made.
The air was alien
Time exited the room
By their contact they
drew a supposition a false
image born. They smell
fear as the blood runs.
The finger rules the gun
The finger rules the brain
A shot death before the sound
touches their ears
This thin blue line
That breaks or hides an act
In a shadow to say
I had to I had to…

Through the window’s Heaven and Hell

He stares from his grey locks
Out passed the mirrored glass
Into the beigeness of the gridlocked
Horn laden car park.

His wife of years, too many to comprehend,
Stares across at the counters where
They come and go, dreaming, looking
at their youthful optimism, veined with a wish.

While the grandchild – wonders under
the table. In a world made of his mythology;
within a world engineered in which he is just
another fish, within the ever increasing fish trap.

They fall beneath the surface. As the worm
finds solace. Compressed within time.
She breaks with an absolute silence that is
as pure as absolute blackness

The cut up

A possible or potential Bowie lyric from an American poet

1. From Francophiles, 1958 by John Matthias

Incanted incanted
So we, in repastures tower room
Think in French by Berger to Morocco
We’d proclaim the absurd to the surreal
Headlong to Paris over the hill
Through the unsettled valley
In the settled code of the predatory age

Steinbeck and Sartre understand
The boulder up the hill
Paid the wage of Sisyphus
Went a good long way to the blossomed leaves

Not anybody’s trees gave us arms
From our tower: I’m no existentialist
Obliged? If obliged between the work
Of justice that surprised justice
Of the authentic old conspirators
Named assassins who co-ordinate sabotage
The beeping change of key leads to green
Transhumant fields

Steinbeck and Sartre understand
The boulder up the hill
Paid the wage of Sisyphus
Went a good long way to the blossomed leaves

Incanted incanted
So we, in repastures tower room
Think in French by Berger to Morocco
From our tower: I’m no existentialist
Obliged? If obliged between the work

Steinbeck and Sartre understand
The boulder up the hill
Paid the wage of Sisyphus
Went a good long way to the blossomed leaves

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