the gordian knot

it sits squat
at the centre
of my brain

a cloistered fist
pulsing with crude
thudding outward

sometimes as whispers
sometimes as shouts
sometimes it walks me

out to that pub
at all hours
to polish a stool

and raise one glass
too many in the company
of strangers

while I wonder
if I'll ever meet
an Alexander

great enough
and whether he might
pay off my bar tab

break early

why be consigned
to the slow rot
of time and tears

that rends a ruin
of all your beams
and brickwork

to be gawked at
by tourists
and dust brains?

it costs nothing
to shrug and let
your slim facade

reveal its roots
of earth and ore
and be rebuilt

on solid ground
by the few
who turn up