Baddingfield

Brace you ankles, 

when we hit the cobblestones,

you’re wearing your high heals,

so pass the light - and I’ll wear mine.

Tonight - no toasts made in sadness.

We’re racing to the grave.

-

We sneak our ciders in,

engulfed by rowdy rabble,

let’s toast to our mortality!

Here’s to you and you and you! 

This one’s to all our wrinkled mothers,

and elder brother’s broken backs,

we can race them to the grave!

-

It’s not a toast to death,

if you’ve lived out all your days.

It’s not a toast to health,

when our bodies waste away.

It’s not a toast of hate,

if you love him and you’re saved.

It’s not a toast of love,

when we’re all just getting laid.

It’s not a toast to truth,

if you believe all that they say.

It’s not a toast to wealth,

when we’re all just getting paid.

It’s not a toast to fate,

if we make our own way.

The words we speak just pay homage to our thoughts

The most important things learnt are those not taught.

My Mother said to me “our bodies break away,”

Let’s use them now before decay.

It’s not a toast of sadness,

if we’re racing for the grave.

-

The lines in our smiles will lengthen,

some friendships weaken, others strengthen.

The sea can take our bodies,

The sea can bring us in….

Drink this here - we’ll pay tomorrow,

to what’s lived now, 

brief futures free of sorrow.

It’s not a toast of sadness,

if you’re racing for the grave.

The apartment in Ipanema,

had more types of lino than bedrooms.

We closed its door and pushed two single beds together,

and I fucked you as they crept apart.

You were not so brazilian then.

“Already?” You asked.

I scooped beside you,

pushed my hip to yours and touched your face,

you told me to cherish and not to waste,

our beautiful collision. 

-

The Aztecs bled for you.

Blood spilled from their skin to fill the divots in the sand and make a grainy mush,

and now it flows through you.

Portugal fired her canons for you,

and the Swiss sent you their eyes.

The masons climbed Christo’s arms so he could embrace you,

and that night I embraced you with him.

-

Brazil built you for me.

Pineapple soda in the cattle trough.

Hyperactive livestock - faces of stupor,

Smiles racked with yellow teeth.

Eyes congealed with fairy floss.

Glucose veins.

Sugar-cube brains.

Brittle legs of musk stick.

Tasty sugar-sick ruminants.

Grazing implacably under sherbet Nebula.

Farmer Baddingfield’s junk food cows.

I go to my cafe and you are there again.  Cyclists.  In hordes.  I just want breakfast for once without the view of your sweaty lycra covered figs.  Plus most of you are still fat anyway - just with really toned quads.  It must be all those hash browns and lattes you have after every ride……it’s counterproductive.  I don’t get it, Cyclists.  Drinking a milkshake while wearing roller-skates? Hot.  A beer in ski boots?  Yes please.  A long mac while looking like a brightly coloured, tightly covered cycla-borg? Ridiculous.

Your bike is worth more than my car.  My car has a cigarette lighter.  So it leads me to think - what does swimming cost?  Nothings….………Running?  The price of decent shoes.  “Yeah but feel how light it is,”  one says.  Who gives a fuck?

You’re just a bunch of yuppie toffs in aerodynamic sunglasses, high on life.  Get your own fucking cafe.