December Mornings

Of course, our eyes are cast towards the approaching Christmas festival, but here, on the edges, it doesn’t have the feel of something building. Instead, there is a lazy, languid, gait to our journey, mellow and hazy, the yellows of half-light.

We are in an urban prelude, an introduction to theme.

The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate

from my poetry blog

Coronets For Ghosts

The Rain Never Stops On Deansgate

The rain never stops on Deansgate,
it clears the pavement
faster than the tribal skirmishes

the corrugated shelters
and scaffolded walkways
snagging the flood-water flotsam,
huddled in pockets
of faithless devotions.

The doorways are already taken,
will be for the night,
as we turn blind eyes
behind fogged-over windows,
comfortably dysmorphic 
in this residence of root.

The Church of Scientology 
over the road
has closed up for the day, 
but I feel Tom Cruise calling to me.
Do they have 24-hour call out, I wonder?
Working on Hollywood time.

I don't think these city limits
can hold us,
want to hold us,

they just lay barbed hooks
beneath our skin
reeling us in
every time we glance back.


©AndrewJamesMurray

View original post

State Of Decay

In the wake of the morning school run, I called into the local McDonald’s. Armed with a hot coffee, I went upstairs for extra warmth. It’s that time of year when being comfortable is a question of degree. Literally.

I had the room to myself, and, through a rectangle of light, I could see yellowing leaves outside clinging desperately to trees, only a storm’s breath away from relinquishing their grip forever.

The sky was blue but soon to concede to cloud.

Here, everything was in decay.

It wasn’t just those leaves on the trees; the music coming out of the speaker above me was already out of vogue; that very moment was passing into memory, present tense to past, and I was a machine that through wear and tear would at some point begin to break down. At a cellular level it was already underway, as I was sat there, an heir to debt and degeneration, just a storm’s breath away from relinquishing my grip.