What happened at midnight
I felt sure was foretold,
as the angel of the lord,
incandescent oracle, mystic and biblical pest
hung from the edge of my penthouse roof,
he appeared, willingly, to let go his grip,
once I had pulverised his finger tips
and told him to ‘fuck off and leave me alone’
he faded or fell away
I found it hard to tell.
whether he plunged hard or rose effortlessly,
no rope was found to aid his descent,
no passing weather balloon to hitch a lift on,
if he were invincible he’d have bounced back.
though I didn’t need a buttercup handy
to predict his life expectancy would be short,
the cleared space in my wardrobe,
is now fully occupied by dread, of an order
such as, when you miss the only plane
to take you home from a war torn country,
such as, walking the streets at night in broken shoes
deserted by your friends,
such as, the stomach ache which knows
that when Christ comes to save us all,
he’s going to leave you behind,
this mood settles upon everything,
a mist upon my cloak of conceit,
wrapped around by damp, Grey, dismal thoughts
that breathe their smoke into my ear
and in a small recognisable voice, saying
‘all help and assistance previously offered
will no longer be forthcoming.’
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