Love's Tired Ghost Poem by Neil Crawford

I heard him the clockless hours
when life's a brittle, plastic blue
and silence silver precious.

Through waterfall streets
with Harlequin
his dappled ghost ran screaming

under the canopy
that swaddling,
that shrouds have aped.

I chained myself to his pinnioned feet,
the sweat poured from
my memory.

An unwelcome, foolish passenger,
mere luggage for that
nomad.

Past the deep frozen nymphs
that he had stored
in alleyways.

Past the neutered centaurs,
his scalpel still in quivering
hand.

Past cobwebbed harps and flutes
(none hungered for love's food)
we journied...

Past the headless rose,
its thorns he filed with
a ritual kiss.

Past the perfumed rivers
and Hope's tower
built of cards.

Past the penless poets,
their tongues he held
in aspic, we stopped...

'Here, guard my impetuous cheetah,
hold hard his straining
rein'

He handed me a ribbon, far pinker
than my soul, which, looped around
my innocence, made the beast secure.

On learning his identity, my toffee grip
relaxed, his pet galloped to conquests
and my mandrake innocence followed.

He spoke...

'I am Love's Tired Ghost,
I mourn the unborn child,
I mourn the dead that lived in hope...

I am Love's Tired Ghost,
I ride on empty trains
that have no destination...

I drive engineless cars
down endless midnight
highways...

I caress the stars
and spit on sense,
I am Love's Tired Ghost..

and, in the absence of a
hammering truth,
I am all you have..

I am Love's Tired Ghost'.