Voices

The voice in your headphones

May be wrong

When it says the painting ‘breathes’.

There are no obvious signs.

The voice is blind:

It can’t see thoughts;

But nor can you.

Jumping a few old masters,

You move on:

A minute per picture

Seems too short

For a lifetime’s effort.

You are a masterpiece,

Needing no expert commentary

To prove yourself.

Back in the open air,

You sit, perplexed,

Consulting the day for answers.

And who’s to say

That darkening scene

In front of you

Isn’t some future Rembrandt?

Double Trouble

My doppelganger rang me up today,

Asking for money, which I don’t have.

I pointed out he doesn’t have a phone,

Or even an identity

To speak of.

He claimed I’m an imposter;

He’s the real me:

The self I’d be if I were smart.

He must have problems telling us apart.

The mirror says

I’m better looking.

It should know.

Now, when he calls, I’m not at home,

However much he shouts my name

As if it’s his own.

Though, each time I watch him go,

Shabby and wannabe,

Silence returns like an echo.

Albion Nights

There’s nothing so lost

As a small town at dusk,

When those who can have gone,

Leaving streets to their fate.

Kids, skateboarding by the mall,

Perfect a geometry

That says little of school.

For them, tomorrow is a long way off.

In pubs, locals hoard

The day like change,

Tending a world where

The one thing you trust

Is your average pint.

A St George’s flag

Flies from the Norman keep,

As sunset brings ruins

To life.

Night stretches

To pull down the blinds,

For tourists with time to spare

Despite every plan,

While darkness succumbs

To dreams of Full English.