Heard an incredibly depressing interview on my drive to work this morning, in the grim wet gloom two days before Christmas.
Totally bummed me out, so I've squeezed it all out of me and onto paper. Keyboard. Screen. Whatever.
I listened to death today.
Not Death with a capital D.
No dour Discworld reaper,
nor gamine Gaiman goth girl, no;
I listened to a dying man,
who exuded his oncoming death
with each emphysemic, leukemic breath.
For half an hour in my car
I listened to him breathe his death
on Start The Week with Andrew Marr.
A man so near the end
you could feel the mortality
seeping out of the radio.
Blanketing me in the bleakness
of his poetry.
You're not dead yet Clive,
but I'm mourning you now
and thinking back
to the funny fat-faced man on the telly
saying 'Meanwhile, on Endurance…'
and showing us clips
of silly people from around the World,
and writing what is was like
falling towards England
with only a cardboard suitcase,
a Singapore suitand mushy slushy Chelsea boots.
Normal light-hearted hijinks will resume in due course.