Julian Gough

I Think Continually Of Those Who Were Really Something
(I)

I think continually of those who were really something
Creating a small universe every couple of years
Many of which continue to function
Receiving ambassadors, tourists and Vandals
Who, unfamiliar with the concept of stairs,
Walk through the squares, staring into doorways
Entirely unaware of the upper stories.

“It’s alright, but he can’t hold a candle to
Andy McNab” “…Cecelia Ahern.”

Behind them, high and unobserved
A single light, incandescent
Continues to burn.

City, star and satellite.

Stadt, Satellit, und Stern.

I Think Continually Of Those Who Were Really Something
(II)

I think continually of those who were really something.
Spontaneously combusting, in a locked room,
Their fat burning, bones thinning
Hair, gums and memories receding
Til suddenly there’s nothing left
But a corpse and a pile of books.

I say goodbye, lock the door.
Settle into the chair.

I Think Continually Of Those Who Were Really Something
(III)

I think continually of those who were really something
They hang around, watching me not write
As I sit selfish on a train
And a woman stands, caught between the age
When men stand for beauty, and the age
When men stand for age.

Later, on a plane, I trade my night’s sleep for the poem
And drink a late coffee to sharpen my brain
In the hope of nailing something in the last lines
To justify the day.

Later still, about to land,
I think:
It’s not even a good poem
And I made her stand.