By
Harry Mills
THE LAST PERFORMANCE
And, as she garbled her linguistic gymnastics
of insincere Biblical offerings
the steel grey haired lady vicar
glanced down at her margin notes
to recall the forgotten name of the dearly beloved
penciled on the memorial card
with soft focus vignette photo of the deceased
fresh off the printer’s Heidelberg
whose imprint was just one point smaller
than the closing Amen
then, the men raised the coffin
slowly shuffling down the isle to the awaiting
incinerator, accompanied by a Bach recorded rendition
towards the waiting ruby-red tasseled curtains
that opened theatrically, like a Punch & Judy show
THE ROXY CINEMA
Mock baroque sweeping staircase
turning slowly to the gods
treading the threadbare burgundy Wilton
pockmarked with blackened chewing gum
between the singed Woodbine craters
held as tight as corsets with brass stair rods
below the flaking wall of signed idols
of Victor Mature’s wet dribbling lip
and Errol Flynn’s raised eyebrow
pointing to the balcony toilets
that wreaked of piss-soaked dimps
that circled, as sharks, in the blocked urinals
BENNY’S RED BUS
Up the Oldham Road
unfolding, smog choking, his knackered gear box
rattling as a pulpit priest’s fear
shaking shit out of the brass screwed warnings
of spitting and smoking
as the leather pouched collector
uncoiled the sage green serrated sugar-paper tickets
to old ladies, with opened knees, covered
by leatherette shopping bags, like black sporrans
peering through ocher smoked polluted windows
on Benny’s red bus
NO RETENTION
No retention
as the once safe cloud of family, passes
shrivels, dies in the sky, then buried in paupers graves
and old photos in biscuit tins, static smiles
through a Kodak, of a forgotten garden party, cease
and i’m ten years old in the back yard
wall bricks of mud burn summer colours
the mortar crumbles and departs with the help of my nail
uncles, unknown, un-named with tightly rolled-up sleeves
flex their faded war tattoos, breathing Woodbine breath
and the zinc bath hung from a wall beside the karzie, rests
this was the year my feet dangled over the back wall
watching priests in black performing magic to the dying
and young girls hiding love bites scurrying to the cotton mills
CROSSING THE CHASM
The eggs of quails, like Bedouin’s creamy cold peals
Roll the turning tongue’s treasure of twirled Burgundy
Feeding the absent senses of a kindled light perpetual
In a Southern night of toothless soothsayer’s prophesies
Of an open fingered outstretched withered hand
That will sooth life’s bended brow of a troubled ending
Crossing the chasm of spilt wine and fumbled pearls
Harry is wrong of course, he didn't fail every exam in the world. I examined him at Oldham Municipal Art School in 1958 and he seemed perfectly sound to me. Tony Prince. Bray, England.
"watching priests in black performing magic to the dying and young girls hiding love bites scurrying to the cotton mills" . Loved the Interesting effects and juxtaposition. Harry, your bio is humorous and full of style.