WITHOUT THOSE WITHIN
©Trev Teasdel, Coventry May 1969.


The bright light is dimly lit
and barely burns deep within the shadows
of the tomb-gloom cellars of my mind.
Through the dusty, webbed, barred and unwelcoming
windows shoot,
prancing, leaping, gaily reaping images of
luminous suns with tons and tons of fun
in velvet sacks, containing stacks and stacks of everything,
from dolly birds to hors-d’œuvres and jovial words.
But here I stand with mumbles and grumbles,
stumbling and fumbling.
The mind tumbles and crumbles
the cellars knocking, mocking, constantly rocking,
senses reeling, void of feeling, voices squealing.
Rat chase rat in a tat race vat.


Through the keyhole’s narrow tunnel,
tapering like a paraffin funnel
falls bright and brighter lights cascading,
emitting chills, positively scintillating.
Drink unceasingly descending into glasses, served to asses,
getting fat and fatter.
Music blares through speakers,
amplifying, electrifying,
creating great sensations.


My trampled flat soul, slid under the cellar door
like a seawashed sandy shore.


Silhouetted on the wall
an image, so black and so small,
in vain it tires to crawl up the wall.
I watch it, I watch it fall.
I hear it, I hear it call.
I see it squat in a human knot.
My shadow flat soul withdrawing,
unable to communicate,
prisoned within me.


Hands that having reached out and clutched the brittle bones
of society,
were burnt and the dust of this society blows into my eyes,
obscuring my view.
I, lost, in this vast incomprehensible world,
am snared in the quicksand of my own confusion.
Yet back into the world I go,
clutching my transistor radio.