Headfirst into the night
\nArched behind the viaduct
\nOur progress framed, Victorian
\nThe city encircled by tracks
\nScarfed against the darkness
\nRails scythe sparks from the black.<\/p>\n
The road leads to Stratford
\nBut our thoughts are of St Andrews
\nOur blues wrapped in blue
\nLeeds only days away
\nNurtures our defeat
\nHid, in the frozen north.<\/p>\n
Cars cut through
\nCharcoal diffused
\nBy headlight and radio
\nScores digested, disgusted
\nFaith tested, then
\na smack of metal.<\/p>\n
Nails tear this blackboard night
\nBrakes scream a mongrel howl
\nCanine emotion rent apart
\nHairs rigid, spine electric
\nA scream from the guts of time
\nSpirals round the centurion brickwork.<\/p>\n
We spin round, no cars have stopped
\nNo indicator winks the spot.
\nThe road empties of sound
\nNo cadaver to be found, it’s fate
\nGuess work, ghost work
\nJet black to our blues.<\/p>\n
Nothingham<\/strong><\/p>\n We walk arm in arm, drunk. We pause and take in the tableaux Despair exhales as droplets of laughter We walk arm in arm, drunk. I fall Sent to Coventry (Stars on the A45)<\/strong><\/p>\n Two months now, not that long really I follow the road blindfolded. Coventry tries to distance itself I wouldn’t want to die here. The machine takes her breath and beeps We drop George off. The howl of turbines December Sky<\/strong><\/p>\n The radio prattles, In front, printed in against the sudden dawn. The road leads to Stratford By Garrie Fletcher<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-15545","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15545","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15545"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15545\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15545"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15545"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15545"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nBack from your local, up the steep hill
\ntowards the guest house half way up.
\nGlazed light flickers
\nthrough net curtains browned
\nwith nicotine and indifference.<\/p>\n
\nwithin. Cheap tracksuits, taut,
\nfull to bursting, rippling with each rise
\nand fall of the ribcage. A tidal wave
\nof lard races from gut to face,
\nlaughter the instigator. Lungs
\nheavy with tar bathe in the glow
\nof the cathode-ray tube, winking, seducing.<\/p>\n
\nsmall clouds of wonder, the human
\nrace in all its majesty, resplendent excess.
\nOur laughter whilst encased
\nin spite and bitterness is tempered with
\nour incipient love and our knowledge
\nthat humanity should be more than this.<\/p>\n
\nasleep in your spare room and dream.<\/p>\n
\nand yet it’s become part of our lives
\nthreaded through the everydayness
\nof Eastenders and shopping.
\nNothing has changed.
\nEverything is different
\nnothing is ever the same again.<\/p>\n
\nAlthough in reality, and for everyone’s peace of mind,
\nI keep my eyes firmly fixed upon
\nthe unfolding darkness of the A45.
\nI half dream of taking off into
\nthe night, a silent, sentinel
\nblinking from the tail of one of the envied jets
\nthat scream above Birmingham Airport.<\/p>\n
\nfrom the random sprawl of the West Midlands
\nfor a few minutes it almost gets away with it.
\nThe startled silhouettes of trees and
\nhedges punctuate our journey, giving
\nthe impression of countryside.
\nThen once more the concrete, clutches
\nof the suburbs enfold us
\nand we enter the city.<\/p>\n
\nThe walls are as anaemic and lifeless
\nas the staff that pass us.
\nThe sharp, bleach of surgical, anguish
\nhangs in the air
\nempty beds gang up in the entrance
\npicking out their next victim.
\nNo one greets us, no one challenges us
\nno one is straight with us.
\nAll we receive are nervous smiles.<\/p>\n
\ntakes her breath and beeps.
\nSugar sweet coffee tears
\nsparkle on the tray
\nin the room of lost magazines
\nand faded lives.<\/p>\n
\nOur departure softened
\nby strong tea and cheap chocolates.<\/p>\n
\ntears the darkness to shreds
\nand another star
\nstarts the steep climb
\ninto the firmament. <\/p>\n
\ncars grumble alongside,
\nthe ice slowly fades
\nfrom the windscreen.
\nI look up.<\/p>\n
\nthick black ink
\nstand the sleeping frames
\nof age old oaks
\nguarding the horizon<\/p>\n
\nVibrant azure, fluffed with
\nwhite streaks, ignited by
\nthe pink, distant star
\nstops me dead at the wheel.<\/p>\n![\"garrie\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2009\/10\/garrie-225x300.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nGarrie Fletcher<\/strong> was born in a crossfire hurricane somewhere between junctions 15 and 15a to the east of the M1. He grew up with the stab of burnt stubble on knee cap and the gasoline rumble of distant adventure. Leaving school with A-levels in Thuggery, Art and English he decided upon the life of riley and studied art in Bratford up north. It was here that he first met Mr Geraint Hughes where they were to make sweet distorted music together, Hughes beating the crap out of borrowed drums and Fletcher scratching and howling. Time passed. Fletcher moved around, travelled, flirted with music journalism and somehow ended up teaching. He carried on writing throughout these heady times and had a collection of such things published by Blackheath Books<\/em><\/a>. He has poems published both in print, on line, and read out on the wireless as well as winning a place on the Polesworth poetry trail where his poem “Gods dance within us” is soon to be chiseled into headstone and placed in the Abbey graveyard where moss may grow and time decay. He currently lives in Birmingham where he continues to write and perform.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"![\"garrie1\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2009\/10\/garrie1-150x150.jpg\")
Headfirst into the night
\nArched behind the viaduct
\nOur progress framed, Victorian
\nThe city encircled by tracks
\nScarfed against the darkness
\nRails scythe sparks from the black.<\/p>\n
\nBut our thoughts are of St Andrews
\nOur blues wrapped in blue
\nLeeds only days away
\nNurtures our defeat
\nHid, in the frozen north…<\/p>\n