I REMEMBER YOU

I remember you
Even more painful, where and when
You told me when it was over
That you'd find me again
So you searched all the hostels
Inhabiting lonely men
I was killed by your mouth
You were killed by my pen

I told you I liked chocolates
So you bought me a cigar
You have a cruel talent
For pushing me too far
I remember walking miles
While you passed me in your car
The same one I'd bought you
When you became my star

Now the years are conspiring
To drive me insane
Along with some of my friends
Who only deal in pain
So let me spell it out
To you nice and plain
My dance is slowly fading
And it failed to bring you rain

I'll soon be gone like Jesus
To never come again
You nailed me to your cross
And made me watch you with other men
They all hurt and manhandled you
And I shed tears for my precious friend
But you stood with them and mocked me
I should've known how it would end

(c) Frank Howson 2019

UNTIL THE BROKEN HEARTS HEAL

Let us kneel and say our prayers
That something hears our call
We think too deep
And we see nothing at all
Rome wasn't built in a day
But I bet it took an hour to fall

Let us not weary in our cause
Until we right the wrong
A place is not a home
Until you feel you belong
A country isn't great
Until it looks after its own
To value true friendship
You must walk many miles alone
Let us not rush to condemn
Until we know what's real
Let us try a little kindness
Until the broken hearts heal

Let us not worship false gods
Like money or power
For we will see their futility
In our final hour
And when we face the truth
May we hold our heads up high
And know we did our best
And that the seeds of those deeds won't die
And that the judgement we're given
Can't be argued or repealed
For the best of us did not rest
Until the broken hearts healed


(c) Frank Howson 2019 

Photograph by Frank Howson 2019 Mui Wo.

WHAT AM I BID?

He's in that room
Second door to the right
Asleep on the couch
Exhausted from trying to make sense of it all
And from staying out of anyone's way
He can't play the person he was anymore
The clothes don't fit
The lines don't ring true
And the lighting isn't right
All of his happy endings
Added up to one massive disaster
He stood up once
To be shot down
But that bravest hour
His finest
Misreported by many
Cost him more than money
And years
And the loves of a life
Although the fire was extinguished
Some embers still burn
When it's that three o'clock hour
And the world is silent and God whispers "Don't worry"
To thwart the attack of the shadow people
For it takes a lifetime
To realise
That the more you're taught
The less you think you know
It's all part of the process
Of shedding skins
In order to set the spirit free
From the chains of this world
For you have to be beaten
And mocked
And fall
Time and time again
On your road to humility
That will eventually carry you
Above these prison walls
The world has been taken over by idiots
And statisticians
Gossips shows and celebrity chefs
And is a place where a couch
In a tiny room
Has become someone's refuge
As he puts on his coat
And goes walking with his ghosts
Into a familiar surrounding
That is at last bearable
As he wanders
With the knowledge that
With wisdom comes predictability
And explains God's boredom
With us
Can you imagine?
Few can
Take this man
Oh, take him, Lord
He who lived with trauma
And the insanity of hope
And walked streets that turned back into themselves
Like people do
And was insulted, defamed and betrayed
By those he'd shown the most kindness to
How much am I bid for his heart?
It's weary from caring
But it is still in working order
What do I hear for his love
That has the capacity to extend to so many
For so little in return?
What am I offered for his feet
That have walked the world many times
And yet were still able to stand while others fell?
What will you give for his voice
That was silenced for a time by experts
Who feared his truth?
Going once
Going twice
Sold



Words (c) Frank Howson 2019

photograph by Bruce Woodley. 




 

 

 

MONUMENTS AND RUINS

I begin this story in the deep state of insanity, God knows where it will end. It is your fault as much as mine, that it has happened. For, you see, I was the one who came knocking all those nights you chose not to answer the door. But I have waited, without thanks or encouragement. Good things come to those who wait, my mother once told me. So here I sat, in this darkness, waiting for you to acknowledge me.

You didn’t kill me with your slings and arrows. Or your bullets and blades. No. You were crueler. You ignored me to death. I couldn’t find it in myself to forgive you. For you knew what you did. I bled in pain and, finally exhausted from hanging on too long, I suffocated.

I was taken down from my cross by the few who loved me, wrapped in cloth, and buried behind a rock to make sure I didn’t keep coming back like Judy Garland.

But I did. Many didn’t recognise me as I stepped into the spotlight on the stage of Carnegie Hall. But there I was. Transformed. In living colour. “At the top of his game,” wrote one critic, a friend of the producer. “He’s a laughter machine,” wrote another. “What the Fuck?” was the headline of the New York Times. That last review killed me. Again.

I wasn’t used to the warmth of the spotlight so my face hurt from smiling. My hand hurt from shaking others. My back from being slapped by strangers. And stabbed by a few friends. The crazier I became, the louder they laughed. My jokes were all at my expense, hence my well-publicised bankruptcy. I had no idea where I was going, so that became my plan. It has been emulated by many since, and they’ve all ended up in the toilet. Some of us have been in the toilet so long, people are talking.

Your love only gave me cancer. You kept begging me for closure, but you were really nagging me to death. I see it all now. For in death, we all become safe, don’t we? And then others are free to rewrite their memories so they can live with them. And you become enjoyable dinner party chat (gossip that, now you’re dead, becomes safe enough to become fact), to sophisticated listeners on their own way to the big fade-out.

I have kept on living just to spite you. You stole the joy from my life so that I could be as miserable as you. You paid me back for having friends. For having a future. For having a past. For having a positive attitude. For having bothered to put up with you.

I knew that by falling in love with you I’d be destroyed, so I only have myself to blame on that count.

You have more in common with those you detest than you realise.

The years I spent with you weren’t wasted as I learnt more money needs to be spent on mental health.

I’ve been on the streets and caught its madness. Even the traffic lights are wrong. Yesterday the TV lied to me. The toaster has the shits about something. The bathroom has turned right wing. And the refrigerator no longer engages in late-night conversations about literature.

I loitered on the corners of Dream and Nightmare, where I died waiting for a handout. A leg up. A racing tip. A sporting result. A kind word. A smile. A passing ex-wife. Anything.

“Live The Life You’ve Dreamed” was a framed quote on the wall of the local drug dealer.

I have found Life to be quite addictive. Like an Agatha Christie mystery, you keep wondering what’s next.

I can’t afford to travel as much as I used to, so I spend my days going up and down in the elevators of tall buildings. Besides, it does you no good to get away I’ve discovered. Jesus knew that.

I can’t go home any more because too many strangers are living there. And I’ve been away so long nobody remembers me.

I spend most of my days gathering food for the homeless. I call it lunch.

We know what got into Chet Baker’s arm, but what got into his head? Have you noticed that nobody seems to care about the important stuff once they have their headline?

Where is that black girl who showed me that Life was meaningless? She said the less you cared, the more luck you got. I have some questions for her. But I think I may have lost her by confessing that I loved her.

My father always told me that if Hitler had been able to get out of bed each day before noon, he’d have won the war. I’ve not been quite sure what I was supposed to have deducted from that advice. So, subsequently I’ve forced myself to be an early riser for fear of becoming a lazy fascist.

My dear ol’ dad took things to extremes, and no matter what time of the day or night I got out of bed, my father was always awake. I suspect he feared that if he slept in it could lead to him invading Poland. A terrible burden for a man to carry to his early grave. But so you have it. That’s all I was left with.

But what do I know?

It came as quite a shock to me when I was asked to write a book and share my wisdom with the world. I was also somewhat confused when I delivered the finished manuscript to my publisher and he laughed out loud at all the places I’d cried whilst writing it. When I inquired as to why this was, he laughed so hard he fell off his chair and shrieked, “Don’t worry, it’ll be alright!” And collapsed in hysterics again on his expensive carpet. I had to step over him to get to the door.

Later that day I returned to his offices to pick up my hat (I’d left it behind), and was told that a board meeting was in progress discussing my book and it’d been going for hours and I couldn’t interrupt it. I listened at the door and heard many people squealing with laughter, and gasping for breath.

I cried all the way home.

But no one noticed me. Anyway, I see nothing in the eyes of strangers I pass on the street. Nothing. Just an abyss that goes so deep you can’t scramble back from it. I have found myself on occasion, falling. But then, I always lost me again. So I’ve kept falling over and over and over in search of something familiar. In the end, the falling became my life.

I was shunned by everybody and then told to make my own way. I wasn’t in the club. I hadn’t gone to the right schools. My parents were poor. I’d read about universities but didn’t know where they were. This was in the dim dark days before Google Maps. When the Labour Party believed in who they were. And so did we. Everything I learnt I achieved by doing, and not from some academic book. So, I became the eternal outsider. Always looking in on others easy-come good times. Watching them through the window as they munched on expensive Government funded  finger-food and sipping vintage French Champagne. Some of the organisers saw me standing outside in the rain, looking in, and felt sorry for me. They said I could come in if I promised to dry off and only have a cup of tea with the kitchen staff.  But such treatment only made me stronger. And hungrier. So I developed the necessary resistance to haunt them. Eventually they thought they should give me an award as my alienation was becoming obvious. So, they gave me an award nobody had ever heard of but it had my name on it. It lasted a few years before it fell apart. Beating me by a few months. But while I was somewhat together, it got me a few easy lays and a social disease. And, for a time, it felt good to be noticed. It reminded me that I was alive.

It’s best summed up in the words of Ballsack who once said, “There is something out there that stems from something that makes no sense whatsoever to anything other than the something you may attach meaning to.” I couldn’t have said it any better myself.

I do sometimes remember to look around at the exquisite beauty of nature and am filled with humbling wonderment as well as contrasting anger at man’s obsession with destroying anything he hasn’t had a hand in. Such is our envy. Such is our insecurity. Such is our shortsightedness. Such is our spiteful will to bring about our own destruction. Although, in those last despairing moments of our self-inflicted demise we will cry and whimper like the true cowards we are. And shake our fists at our mothers for bringing creation to us and thus sentencing us to death.

Exist-tense, if we stick with it, rewards us with a present. A gift, if you will. But that can only be fully appreciated if we turn our backs on the past because what happened then was just a series of presents that we initially devalued but either gained from or lost our minds over, and here we are. At the crossroads, going forward or being pulled back into the abyss of “What if?” or “Why?”

People with rooms to spare won’t take in a friend who is homeless. Why not? Because they’re afraid you won’t leave. They don’t mind killing you as long as you don’t die on their premises. And once you do depart this life, there are so many stories they can twist to elevate themselves.

I recently saw workers erecting a monument to someone. It wasn’t finished yet so I couldn’t define who the subject was. But the shoes looked a lot like mine. I wondered whether this monument was a tribute to me and my life. A life in which everything I had ever loved I’d reduced to ruins.

 

(c) Frank Howson 2019

 

ONCE I WAS A CHILD

Once I was a child
And the world was beautiful
And frightening
Loving and cruel
Simple
And complex
Much bigger than me
I looked up to everyone
Seeking guidance
Wisdom
A smile
Some grownups didn’t like children
You could tell by how they looked at you
Perhaps they didn’t like fellow grownups either
But I didn’t know that
I was just a child
I liked to play with little soldier figures
That I collected until I had my own army
Then I started collecting an army for them to fight
They like to hook boys on war as soon as possible
My army won every battle
But none of them got really hurt
They just pretended to be to satisfy my scenario
That’s a grownup word for story
Grownups like to show off
I also liked to listen to the radio
My mum said I could identify every singer
Just from hearing a few bars of their voices
My dad worked every week day
And sometimes he took me with him
I was made a fuss of by his workmates
Because I was a child
Sometimes my mum worked at night
I didn’t like that
I would sit on my dad’s knee
Listening to the radio
Eagerly awaiting her return
I wished that we had a TV set
And then one day Steele’s department store
Delivered one by accident
We never told them
And they never came back
My parents thought it was luck
I knew it was magic
And my wish had come true
But what did I know?
I was a child
Sometimes my much older sisters were nice to me
Most times they weren’t
I grew to accept that
I must have done something wrong to them
And they were paying me back
Or else they knew I was worthless
I should’ve thanked them for bringing this to my attention
But I was just a child
I liked watching things on TV
In those days shows always had a happy ending
And the cast would smile as the credits rolled
Sometimes they’d wave at me while they smiled
And I waved back
Before they faded out
I wished that I could be on TV
And then I was
My parents called it luck
But I knew it was magic
My wish had come true
Again
One day my mum took me to see a pantomime
At the Tivoli Theatre
It looked magical to me
And everyone seemed to be having fun
I wished I could be up there on the stage
And one day I was
My parents called it luck
But I knew much more
You see, I was a child
And for a time my wishes came true
Then I grew up
And I wished I hadn’t
But as much as I wished
Nothing happened
And I couldn’t go back
Ever again
Then my dad went to heaven
He said he’d had enough
So I got married
Because that’s what grownups do
When you replace grownups
And take on responsibilities
And it all begins again
And I got to learn grownup secrets
Like
There are not always
Happy endings
And that wishes rarely come true and it’s more to do with luck
The older you get
The more selective you become about what you wish for
One day my wife took me to dinner
And told me a happy occasion was coming
And soon we had a child of our own
I always knelt so as to not look down on him
No matter what he asked
I always smiled and gave him
Guidance
And what wisdom I had
I tried to make him feel he was worth
Everything
To me
Then one day it was all taken away
But that’s a long story
I guess I’d forgotten in my joy
To say thank you
To the one who grants the wishes
Or luck
And he can be a hard God at times
My mother didn’t want to leave me
Alone
So she hung on a long time
But finally she got so tired
She had to go
Sometimes people ask me what I want
And I answer that I want what I had
A long time ago
When there were heroes
Before the press tore them down
Back when my family and I gathered around
Our hot TV
And watched our favourites
And laughed as one
Cried as one
And cheered as one
When I was a child
And the world was new
Once
When wishes came true
And
If you were lucky
Stayed true
But now I’ve been cast as the kindly old man
And seek signs of affection
In the eyes
Of those I pass in the street
As I did when I was a child
But people’s eyes are cold these days
And they don’t see others
For they are only looking inward
I also smile at children
Remembering when I was one
But they confirm that I am now invisible
For they’ve been taught to ignore strangers
I’m no longer in the club
Expelled for growing too tall
Too grey
Even though my heart remains young
And open
And child-like
The deserted alleyways of night
Sometimes
Are the only friends one can confide in
Walk it away
Walk it away
Around the next corner there is no light
Anymore
And you can lose yourself
Quite easily
Sometimes I am seen
Looking lost
Frantic
Anxious
Searching for my youth
In the recycling bins
Trying to find one little toy soldier
Who might stand up for me
Take my side
Fight the good fight
And guide me
Home

(C) Frank Howson 2019

LONESOME ENDS WITH ME

We sleep in the dark
And wake to a stark
New day
We never learn
We wait our turn
Then forget what to say
When someone nags
We pack our bags
And flee
We push and shove
And try to love
But lonesome ends with me

Wasn’t I there for you
Aren’t I a friend too?
You sneak thoughts into my head
While I rest in bed
I used to feel alive
But now I feel
As good as dead
But
With that having been said…

We give what it takes
And make our mistakes
And cry
We walk alone
And turn to stone
I love you but you lie
I walk the beach
And sometimes teach
For free
That one and one
Can come undone
And lonesome ends with me

(C) Frank Howson 2019

WHO SAW HIM LAST?

These were the shoes he wore. Notice the soles are thin. He’d walked many miles in these trying to get ahead.

This was his favourite jacket. He felt wealthy when he wore it. Even though it had holes in the pockets.

This is the shirt he called his lucky one. He always wore it to important meetings and although nothing ever came of them he felt this shirt would bring him luck. Someday.

These were his favourite pants – he’d been married in them. Twice.

This was the hat he wore everyday. It shielded his head from the rain and the wind and the sun. And if he pulled the brim down, from everyone.

This is the map he lost just before he lost his way.

These are the tears he cried when he had nowhere to go.

This is the heart you broke and you didn’t even know.

These are your letters he kept when he believed in you.

This is the photo of his mother who thought he was precious.

Where are the friends he helped instead of helping himself?

This is his favourite song that he played every night.

This is the movie he said changed his life.

These are the books he loved now all packed away.

Who saw him last?

(C) Frank Howson 2019