I Trawl the Megahertz

I'm telling myself the story of my life

Stranger than song or fiction

We start with the joyful mysteries

Before the appearance of ether

Trying to capture the elusive

The farm where the crippled horses heal

The woods where autumn is reversed

And the longing for bliss in the arms

Of some beloved from the past

I said 'Your daddy loves you.'

I said 'Your daddy loves you very much...

He just doesn't want to live with us anymore.'

The plane comes down behind enemy lines

And you don't speak the language

A girl takes pity on you

She is Mother Theresa walking among the poor

And her eyes have attained night vision

In an orchard, drenched in blue light

She changes your bandages and soothes you

All day her voice is balm

Then she lowers you into the sunset

Hers is the wing span of the quotidian angel

So her feet are sore from the walk

To the well of human kindness

But she gives you a name, and you grow into it

Whether a tramp of the low road or a prince

Riding through Wagnerian opera

You learn some, if not all, of the language

And these are the footsteps you follow

The tracks of impossible love

Twelve days in Paris, and I'm awaiting for life to start

In the lobby of the Hotel Charlemagne

They're hanging photographs

Of rap artists and minor royalty

All cigarettes have been air-brushed from these pictures,

Making everyone a liar

And saving no-one from their folly

As proud as Lucifer, I do nothing to hide

My kerosene dress and flint eyes

Which one steady look, are able to restore

To these images their carcinogenic threat

So what if this is largely bravado?

I have only twelve days in Paris, and I'm waiting for life to start

I'm setting out my stall behind a sheet of dark hair

And you, the hostage of crazed hormones

Will be driven to say:

'I am the next poet laurate,

And she is the cherry madonna,

And all of the summer is hers.'

At first I don't notice you

Or the colour of your hair

Or your readiness to laugh

I am tying a shoelace

Or finding the pavement fascinating

When the comet thrills the sky

Ever the dull alchemist

I have before me all the neccesary elements,

It is their combination that eludes me

Forgive me, I am sleepwalking

I am jangling along to some song of the moment

Suffering it's sweetness

Luxuriating in it's feeble aproximation of starlight

Meanwhile there is a real world

Trains are late, doctors are breaking bad news

But I am living in a lullaby

You might be huddled in a doorway on the make

Or just getting by, but I don't see it

You are my one shot at glory

Soon I will read in your expression

Warmth, encouragement, assent

From an acorn of interest

I will cultivate whole forests of affection

I will analyse your gestures

Like centuries of scholars

Pouring over Jesus' words

Anything that doesn't fit my narrow interpretation

I will carelessly discard

For I am careless, I'm shameless, and

'Mayday, Mayday, watch the needle leave the dial'

I am reckless, I am telling myself the story of my life

Soon, I will make you a co-conspirator

If I am dizzy I will call it rapture

If I am low I will attribute it to your absence

Noting your tidal effect upon my moods

Oblivious to the opinions of neighbours

I will bark at the moon like a dog

In short, I'm asking to be scalded

It is the onset of fever

Yesterday they took a census

Boasting, I said 'I live two doors down from joy.'

Today, bewildered and sarcastic, I phone them and ask

'Isn't it obvious? This slum is empty.'

Repeat after me: happiness is only a habit

I am listening to the face in the mirror

But I don't think I believe what she's telling me

Her words are modern, but her eyes have been weeping

In gardens and grottoes since the Middle Ages

This is the aftermath of fever

I cool the palms of my hands upon the bars

Of an imaginary iron gate

Only by an extreme act of will can I avoid

Becoming a character in a country song

'Lord, you gave me nothing, then you took it all away.'

These are the sorrowful mysteries

And I have to pay attention

In a chamber of my heart sits an accountant

He is frowning and waving red paper at me

I go to the window for air

I catch the scent of apples, I hunger for a taste

But I can't see the orchard for the rain

There are two ways of looking at this

The first is to accept that you are gone

And to light a candle at the shrine of amnesia

I could even cheat

In the subterranean world of anaesthetics

Sad white canoes are forever sailing downstream

In the early hours of the morning

'Tell the stars I'm coming, make them leave a space for me

Whether bones, or dust, or ashes...

Once among them I'll be free.'

It may make a glamorous song,

But it's a dark train of thought with too many carriages

There is, of course,

Another way of looking at this

'Your daddy loves you,' I said

'Your daddy loves you very much,

He doesn't want to live with us anymore.'

I am telling myself the story of my life

By day and night,

Fancy electronic dishes are trained on the heavens

They are listening for smudged echoes of the moment of creation

They are listening for the ghost of a chance

They may help us make sense of who we are and where we came from

And, as a compassionate side effect

Teach us that nothing is ever lost

So, I rake the sky

I listen hard

I trawl the megahertz

But the net isn't fine enough, and I miss you

A swan sailing between two continents

A ghost immune to radar

Still, my eyes are fixed upon the place I last saw you

Your signal urgent but breaking

Before you became cotton in a blizzard,

A plane coming down behind enemy lines