Thursday, May 28, 2015

Old Edinburgh, New Sheffield

Burke and Hare's defence was Jekyll and Hyde,
That drink had made their good characters base,
Was palliative just as Hare had tried
To smooth horror from the dead mute boy's face
After breaking his back over Burke's knee.

Northern Powerhouse, by misgovernment,
Apostates are drinking in Wetherspoon's;
A girl with a sign, "Free Encouragement 
Or Free Disabusals"; and I hear noon's
Bells in Fargate and throughout Black Swan Walk.

Fountains add to this feeling of leisure,
So too the currentous orbs and the trees
From Tasmania, but by myth, measure
Or murder, the people who no one sees
Are those who can afford to lose their faith.

And this empty glass that has amplified 
My iPod's songs, now amplifies the boy's
Gasps; and I hear his voice ring from inside
Fox Hole Cave; odd virgin voice that alloys
Arthur's Seat, Park Hill and here, High Wheeldon;

Shashing noise of sobs with curtailed egress,
Calling. A life mute in mute poverty,
His gasps are residual, to address 
Me by name the boy must have finally
Found a voice; and I am presumptuous:

When friendly instructional couplets
On disposing of sanitary things,
Displayed above the cisterns in toilets,
Have readership greater than mine, why rings
His voice in this chamber for me? He speaks,

And instead tenders a criticism:
"Why do you lament in such ambience
Of love, sing of Apparitionism
When so learned and without encumbrance?"