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Array
(
[sid] => 19331
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Bandages on Windmill Street
[time] => 2003-06-20 09:05:00
[hometext] => More war poems- yay. I wonder, am I any good at them?
[bodytext] => Down Windmill street the candles blow Lit at the stroke of a clock When the hand tolls the time And the pining minutes frail And wilt into the night But there’s one house where the candle isn’t lit And that’s where Young Ted lives. An old warrior’s resting place He’s wizened round the eyebrows And his eyelids scorched and wrecked And his eyes are ghostly grey complexities Rebellious gnats fly at his bandages. Ted’s eyes have a tale to tell For when the yellow smog hit him They became their own journalists The white stick guides like a placid monk Across the pantry floor And Ted occasionally buckles and winces Even though the shells aren’t there any more He remembers the sodden trenches The time when Gerri’s came, and the putrid gas was warm As hard as porridge as it his countenance And the world turned black once more But this time Aurora shan’t be chased, And the pupils are dead He’ll never see again will Ted, But forever in his mind Is the branded image of a pining corpse Covered in the metal of a blistered thought And that’s why tears soak his bandages. [comments] => 1 [counter] => 202 [topic] => 57 [informant] => Wellington [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => war )
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