Written: Wind Pipe

by Beauchamp Art

Getting old with collapsing lungs,
Throat seized by living ghosts,
Suffocating in cramped rooms,
Stifled by faces out of focus
Blurring into the smog.

Fumes of inhuman activity,
The air damp with it,
Clinging to the flesh,
Crawling up the arteries,
Defiantly pumping pollution.

Oh, the great pollinator,
Now autumn brown even in spring,
All silhouettes now,
All dull and vague shades,
Beneath the overcast hue.

Stale, how age crept,
With bent bandy knees,
Knocking pendulous,
Making movement heavy,
Leadening wore leather soles.

Sinews strain as split stitches,
Unkempt about the face and body,
Encased in eroded concrete,
The social house stagnant,
Windows rusted shut and barred from light.

Paling, appalling, appealing to little,
Could kick cans and turn over bins,
Roll in the refuse,
Revelling and re-devilling,
In impressions of impulses.

But before long,
These child’s lungs,
Rushed through life,
Will cough once,
And wheeze into stillness.

How long they held together,
So tarred and feathered,
So marred and weathered,
The wind-pipe puffs
And plays is penultimate melody.