mildewed images

Mildewed Images

Mildewed realism
Flights of fancy
Are both at the end
Of the bed.
Mildewed realism
Imaginary worlds
Radio trauma
Collapse of hope.

Mildewed rationalism
Imaginary worlds
Radio traumas
Collapse of a nation
Sieg Heil
Am I on your conscience
Politicians?
Mildewed images
The moths got to them
Before we did
Says the policeman
The politician drives by
In a car like a battle-ship
A Lincoln Ford Intercontinental
The moths will
Get to him too in the end.

Christopher Baily
January 2003

©estate of christopher baily

red faces

©estate of christopher baily

march 93

©the estate of christopher baily

the walk to the clinic

The Walk to the Clinic

The Broken Man
Walks down the Hill
Past Semis, then the trees begin
Victorian villas.

The Brave Hussar
Sat for his Photograph
A Puff of Smoke
The Broken Man

Is it me? Am I the Broken Man?
Yet again, on Remembrance Day
I think of the Dead
Who are not Dead.
Bonjour, I have arrived
The Door Thuds Shut.

Christopher Baily
November 2000

©estate of Christopher Baily

the park

The Park
Late January
And I toil up the hill
In the morning sun.
At the top of the park
By the railings
Just below the mansion
And the Poly car park,
I smoke three ragged Park Drive.
Tobacco shreds on my lips,
I watch the old dog-walkers
Walk their tiny dogs,
Some not tiny,
Off their heads,
Dancing in the fresh golden air.
I see by the daffodil shoots,
Ice-free, already half-grown,

Which push through the earth,
And the buds on the maple and almond,
That spring is nearly here.
Springs cursed wonder.
I tremble at the dance of
The mad March hare.
What will Easter bring?
Another breakdown?
I cling to winter’s dark cold night,
Bright sun in the park.

Christopher Baily
28 January 1999

© estate of Christopher Baily

tightrope

Tightrope

Walking the usual tightrope,
Mood swings,
Paradise & Inferno
Poison money,
It only buys the comforters,

Nicotine & Alcohol
A coffee at the Excelsior,
Worries are mountains
I cannot climb,
With reason,
All is emotion.

Christopher Baily

© estate of Christopher Baily

obsession

Obsession

Once it seemed so easy to write.
Now words are frozen,
The land I inhabit impossible to map.
Words rail me round,
I stumble.
Continents might shift
And I would still be here
Part of a still-life,
Or finding that the food on the table,
Was really plaster all the time.
Everything is like this;
Trees, houses, streets: a facade.
I don’t like wearing a watch,
For I could follow the second-hand round
For days on end. Yes, this is my obsession,
That we are all in a waiting room,
Expecting a departure or arrival
Which never comes, watching a clock
On the wall, an implacable electric clock.
In my dreams I am a millionaire,
On waking I feel as though I’ve lost a kingdom.
Will it ever be the same again?


Christopher Baily

©estate of christopher baily

survival kit