The White Clover Flower

(Poem II – The Confessional Trilogy)

Would it help to admit,
My devotion to the white clover flower,
All awe, all respect,
In the dewey green grass,
With its epigram leaf,
Peppering over near-cultivated braes.

Would it make any difference,
If I apologised,
For backie-jumpin’ all through,
That cold December.
For invading your garden,
And tearing through the privet.

For stacking up your paving stones,
And placing a park bench,
On top of your Mercedes Benz.
For knocking off your wing mirror,
For the reckless run,
And the damage to your hedge,
And the filling of,
Your empty milk bottles,
The pissing on your plants,
The discarded, sordid, soiled pants.

Would it help if I confessed,
To the white clover flower,
Stretching so civilised,
Over half-cultivated land,
Hyper-aware of its size,
Exploding miniature sublime beauty universe of petals,
All-encompassing symbolism,
Mystery of life,
Of youth,
Of life not death.

Would it matter if I said sorry,
For all those drunken nights,
Unmanageable,  unreasonable,
Shouting in black-out,
For wasting emergency service time,
For the blood on the car-seat,
And you being woken in the night.

Would it change things if I offered,
My sincerest regrets,
For the drug-induced apathy,
The drunk-driven car,
The high-wire fall,
Disregarding of duty,
Drugged-up,
And bent,
And bending so quickly,
For lack of moral fibre.

Would they help,
My great bitter tears for the flower,
Its fleeting moment,
And glorious progeny,
Resurrection in action,
The white clover flower.

Would it make a difference,
If I said sorry,
I’m sorry for tearing,
Through your plants,
You so lovingly cultivated,
And worked so hard,
To keep alive,
It’s only now,
I can imagine,
That I was you,
Somehow.

Vandalism,
The greatest leveller,
Of have and have nots,
Making sure the bill’s halved,
By the haves,
And the pain of the balance,
Is transferred.

Powerless I am,
Over my love for the white clover flower,
I weep for it,
Powerless,
As powerless I was,
Horsing it through the backies,
Me and the B-dogs,
That cold December night,
Through the backs of Muirfield Crescent.

I escaped, I escaped,
On that cold December night.
Does it help that I admit,
That I escaped that night,
Into the white clover flower,
The glorious,
Wonderful fields
Of white clover flower,
Beyond your privet hedge.

Voyeur Me.

Porno Jim is an amiable man,

An average Jock who does what he can,

He bides in a flat, deep in the estate,

He never did marry, he never was late.

He goes for a pint on a Saturday night,

Standing alone by the bar out of sight,

He gets up on Mondays and goes to his job,

Where he waits to go home to feel like a slob.

But Porno Jim is comfortable most,

Alone, where only he can play host,

Assisted by image pretending to care,

To imagine a passionate love affair.

So it may well be for the mother Lesley,

Who only likes to watch the telly,

And all the dying babies,

She cries for,

And all the poor animals,

Her heart throbs for,

The feeling of the pain of sympathy,

For these poor souls,

Her neurons spark off,

The electrical impulse,

Which squeezes her soul.

Princess Lesley is so attractive,

With faultless manners and interactive,

And she, too, likes to be alone,

But her largely unheard escstatic moan,

Is only found in the pain she perceives,

And the tortured face it's believed she receives.

Or it just may at last be JT Gow,

Who keeps it together, all together now,

The hero for holding back crisis meltdown.

But when he is alone...

...he tortures the cat,

And congratulates himself,

For not using the bat.

He likes to watch,

People getting hurt.

But nevertheless there’s still today,

And Para Gav has joined AA,

After pissing half his life away,

After pissing half his life away,

Which came to a head just yesterday.

He used to be happy and then he had strife,

But now AA will sort out his life.

Porno Jim is an amiable man,

An average Joe, who does what he can,

But Para Gav has changed his ways,

And paid his dues in latter days.

Caravan

Charles is putting out his bin alone,
At ninety degrees,
He has his set square,
And protractor.

Sam is taking in her sin,
Revolving, endlessly,
Throwing out pieces of shit,
From centrafaecal forces,
Uncontrollable by her.

Supergods could give
A place to live,
In a caravan,
Clad with cloud,
With feta cheese,
And anchovies,
But history forbids,
She believes,
She wants to live,
In the real Scotland,
But cannot find it.

Charles has a map,
Can afford to take a nap,
And tolerates no crap.
But Sam has half a bottle left,
While of morals, she believes,
She is bereft,
But actually,
The structure does her good.

When she thinks about it,
It isn't Charles,
It's someone who should be closer,
You should have been a mother,
Twisted, bitter, loveless victim.

Supergods say
She's doing OK,
And Charles is alright,
Although crazy compulsive,
He's not filled with spite,
Regret, remorse,
Or resentment.

Come to think,
The caravan can go to Hell,
Along with you,
The supergods,
Are soon to come.

There never was an ounce,
Of motherly love,
Of affection,
And Sam had to deal with that,
Her whole damn life,
Wondering what was wrong with her,
Her mother the victor,
While Charles was exacting.

Supergods and
A mother,
Who never had the capacity,
To love her child,
While clouds and caravans,
Comforted,
The daughter alone.