Carl Halling

Soon after I’d paid
My sixty
Or seventy pence,
I found myself

I love, not just those
I knew back then,
But those
Who were young

‘Temper your enthusiasm,’
She said,
‘The extremes of your reactions;
You should have

The Infamous Myth
I was once in thrall to the infamous myth
Of the artiste souffrant,
But I’ve come ultimately to see it

My Paris begins with
Those early days
As a conscious flâneur;
I recall the couple

my life story
is littered;
with the ghosts;
of golden;

Yesterday for my birthday,
I started off
with a bottle of wine
I took the train

I was in a tawdry bar,
Or public house,
Being threatened,
For something I’d done

I remember the grey slithers of rain,
The jocular driver,
As I boarded the bus
At Temple Meads,

This place is always a little lonely
At the noise and life;
I like solitude,
But not in places

Perhaps she lives
In our dreams alone,
She whose face is
Illumined

Stevie, we were free,
Stevie, you and me,
On that golden day,
Was it ’68