I Might - By Mark Fallon

I might

i might sing a song about politicians who wear thick coats under jelly hats
that jiggle and giggle as they slide from pavement to parliament and lords and all that
and all those and all them; houses of hate and being late and perpetual debate,
while real live lions roam the urban sprawl and leave nothing to chance or to fate.

i might read a book about shoemakers or poets or painters or the la lakers,
or darwin or dylan or some kinds of villain that die on the dancefloor at chasers.
and it's not that i'm rich or that i'm blind, i just like to appreciate
some other kinds of times in the landmark minefield in which we meditate.

i might make a cannonball jacket and blow old tunes from a beat up flute
as people walk past laughing at the misfortune of sailors on ships, destitute,
but little do they know about tides and it's really the waves that win
because they are what the breeze brings, like the aroma of flowers in spring.

i might wear my heart on my sleeve if it wasn't against the dress code,
strict rules about hope and no hope and they've banned dreams and rock n roll,
because they like the ant hill, termite mound and they like going round and round
in circles with silver and gold to fool the old, and they sell lies by the kilo not the pound.

i might meet a match made in a meat grinder or empty binder, a kind of
girl that smiles when she sees the sunrise. sooner or later i'll find her,
and i'll buy her a gift under a star and she'll smile and put it in her memory
and look back when i'm the ocean and she's the mountain, and grin and remember she loved me.

i might break the taboo and fly away like an eagle
soaring high as a predator, opportune, not scavenge like a seagull
as all these ten-a-penny, suit struck, all 'love bucks'
products of the modern blender. The whirlwind game that we never took.

i might recall a lost love onto pages and separate lines with long words
that all mean nothing except the sweet sound of birds
in the short mornings hush when dying madmen collect all their wrongs
and bury them in a briefcase filled with some other kinds of songs.

i might rise in a changing wind, the only solace that paranoia brings.
i might die in the gutter at the feet of my lover who owns a halo and wings.
i might be nothing in the new dawn, in the new light - squinting as it's too bright.
i might never be what i always dreamed, but then again - i might.