Oscar P. McHale
I heard the silence of the houses,
where the midnight foxes scarpered
and let loose their vacant calls.
I stumbled through haze
in closeted alleys,
they were endless,
and I found no answers.
There I discussed the bleak alternatives
with broken, shabby men,
all of whom cared little for quiet, tearless discourse.
They had seen the peacetime
and begged for the resumption of war by force.
They knew the answerless statement:
The lights in here are broken,
let the night take course.
And where decrepit, dying idols stand:
The tireless men of peerless intellect,
who hold their fixed immoveable ideals,
against reality.
They had sons: Real men’s men,
mortgage paying jingoists
with skin and skulls so thick and insoluble
that bitch-mother-in-laws’ heinous diatribes
rolled off them like piss off an anorak,
but who lost their shit at even the slightest suggestion
of removing pictograms from toilet doors.
The lights in here are broken,
good luck paying the electrician.
Before them stood the marketed politician.
Shoelace of democracy.
(While soles worn down to broken feet)
He knew the godly revelation:
Rape, tarnish, beat them all senseless.
It’s fine to do it.
Once you go home, get fucked in the ass
in penthouse, pensioned apartment,
once a year, wave the flag,
salute the man and not the rank.
The lights in here are broken,
tell me something new.
Now we move from love and hate,
glorious, unrelenting.
It complements the coupling,
half-bitter fumbles and fucks,
when stood in opposition,
ungainly and entangled
but not erect.
His fault really.
Raised in godless households,
starved of some identity,
given everything,
only to squander something called opportunity.
Till there’s nothing left to do
but take pity on the beggar
for not being as middle class as us.
Telling him to work harder
while fetishizing, longing for poverty,
the sweet sordid release of cutting loose from
monotonous, rolling, fever-dream of another excel spreadsheet,
quarterly performance review, bills all paid till 5pm comes,
probation ends, till 9am next morning start anew.
But, man, you got out:
We mourn you,
miss you,
praise you,
kiss you.
But I hardly knew you
or thought of you,
till I heard you took that final opportunity
to be without any other.
The lights in here are broken,
and no one gave a fuck.
And fire-lighting history books told me of barbarians
who sacked and pillaged Rome,
it omitted they were only looking for a way home
after the Emperor tortured theirs,
broke their windows to burn his fires.
Are the lights in here broken
or are we just sitting in the dark?
“So why not take a walk?”
“Clear your head,”
“Exercise,” “eat healthy.”
“It could be worse,
you could be another
beat-nick, schizo plagiarist
whom talent never kissed”.
“Leave the job market – you won’t be missed.”
“Just another monkey waiting on a Shakespeare play.”
“You always land on your feet.”
But I’ve never heard of anyone make something of themselves in an office job.
The lights in here are broken.
I’ll light a candle for you.