You’ll find us “in business,” one of us Baby Boomers found dead –

slept rough in the empty ticket booths of Lion’s Stadium.

Toby married one &

divorced someone entirely different.

Many had sex so indiscriminately that it broke all hearts…

a messy pile-up on an unnecessary motorway.

With generosity, so much forgiveness. With so much fear,

there could never be friendship.

Six of us jammed one infused afternoon,

the cacophony raised angels. We’d “die for” our little arts.

Tried, then gave up serially like

some harbour wavelet in a dingy dawn.

Down deep in narrative I couldn’t see a thing.

Everyone says this as they stumble yet again.

I worked my fingers to the cigarette filter,

then gave up all my favourite habits.

Certain that we needed certainty,

the situation was hopeless.

So much to believe. I believe still.

Politics wasn’t art. Art wasn’t (just) politics.

Forgot most of the miscreants, but some

will hate me forever. Found myself amongst that number.

Bereft & grateful, at one

with nothing much, very Zen.

Glory can be gory, corruption in bliss.

The Party Line, the terror.

Fellow Baby Boomers celebrate, everybody looks so young.

Fish oil, paracetamol, glucosamine & cocktails: we shake it like we shook it.

Music is a sex object, no matter how much we laugh

the vein responds. To remember is a sort of betrayal.

Bought him a drink last week, you’d think

we’d had enough words. Good intentions

are headstones & milestones. History has much to answer for.

Next time will be better, someone is saying.