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Simon Dare


Farnham, England, UK

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Had a Row with my Daughter


Simon Dare

Had a row with my daughter.
She didnít come home last night.
Didnít come home this morning.
And I donít even know if I was right.

Something changed between us.
We grew apart you see.
Why the angels turn their back on some,
Is a mystery to me.

Who gave me the power
For endless words without thought?
Useless prattle! Oh, its nonsense of allsorts.
Who gave me the power
For the one word - or was it two
That burned away the years between us and left me without you?

Tears in my coffee.
Hard lines on my face.
I wish you would call me, and fill up this empty space.
But this is the longest night, Iíve ever known.
The stars you sprinkled in my heaven are now the dust on my telephone.

At the break of my day,
Thereís no one here beside me.
Alone in a darkness, that no one else will see.
And when the dark drags up a doubt, like a fear that crawls and creeps,
I know that I will never see you again and rock you, rock you to sleep.

Thrills and Spills


Simon Dare

Got a letter from mum and dad today,
To tell me that they had a few things to say.
Dad wrote me "when you meet them foreign girls,
"Do not misbehave" (I thought he said I should try).
He also sent me some razors, so I would not forget to shave.
"Remember to keep your bayonet clean,
"Polish your gun - I'd like to see it gleam.
"We donít want them to think weíre in a mess."
All mum wrote was "God Bless".

So where are those glossy Hollywood Hills?
Easy games and boyhood heroes.
Where are those days of adventure?
Wrote dad something heíd like to hear.
Top brass back home say that the end is near.
They were right, of course, for a friend of mine.
He lost his lovely, little boy's face,
In some unloving, lonely place.
But, oh, how his gun did shine.
How his gun did shine.

In Between


Simon Dare

I really never thought that I would see
You again.
That is _
Itís great to see you. I still think of you
Now and then.
Yes. Itís late.
Must move along _ another moment
And youíre gone.

(But I love you.
Lost in your eyes,
Moving my soul and making me cry).

(Yes I love you.
When you smiled, I knew
I would give up my whole life to you).

Then the
Absurdity, the situation comes
Back to me.
I let you go.
You walked away almost thirty
Years ago.
Youíre not her.
You donít see me. I guess that is the
Too much life,
Too many hard-hearted walls, built
In between.



Simon Dare

Six a.m. Another dawn.
A broken day, and the morning is raw.
As daylight trickles through a tear in the night,
She cannot believe how she gave like a whore.

How hungry eyes were suffered
To crawl about her skin.
The lips, the tongue, the spittle and drool,
Dribbling and moist, inside her still.
Hugging her knees, she holds herself in.
A vulnerable baby, afraid she might kill.

Cheaply bought, a throwaway toy.
Broken. Another blot in the book of her life that
She can neither break nor bear.
Sanity or madness on the edge of a knife.

My Effing World


Simon Dare

For five weeks we were love.
Had never felt so close.

Within five weeks I left,
And fell
Headlong into Hell.

Iím still there;
Apathetic and listless,
A flabby forty five year old
Whoís now much further
From fucking God as well.

The Bench


Simon Dare

Its view of the valley obscured
By a ragged fringe of twigs,
The bench has been beaten by time.
The plaque is tarnished
And, the varnish stripped away,
The grain of its life exposed.
Clothed now in moss and lichen rags,
In shame it shrinks into the bush.

They scattered ashes here;
Wife, father, sister, cousin.
All would come when called. Later
We would smile at the memory of those
Long forgiven faces.
Once, it took less
Than the time it takes to blink
For you to close your eyes
And see the smile returned.
Now the bench only pricks
And prickles at those that pass by.

The Coffee Drinkers of Brushfield Street, London E1


Simon Dare

Do you know
The coffee drinkers
Of Brushfield Street London E1?
Those daily patrons
Who view the world
Through the froth at the end
Of an empty paper cup.

Mmm, the aroma,
That permeates
The room, its lamps and lilac settees.
We have all manner of material things.
Like murals with co-ordinate cushions.
We have a tapestry of murmurs.
Threading together
The coffee drinkers,
Of Brushfield Street London E1.

Suits, FTs, folders,
T-shirts and Buffalo trainers.
Ties, lies and faces made to please.
Lovers, flirters.
People who laugh a little too loud.
Point scorers. The spectator
Of every vacant mug.
Yes. You know
These office workers;
The coffee drinkers,
Of Brushfield Street London E1.

In this culture of cool,
That draws the black, brown and gray
From the streets into deep, velveteen easies,
We are deaf
To deadlines, demands,
And the angry moan of dirty diggers,
That, all around, grind the ground away.
Safe, indeed,
From greed and moral decay.
Well, maybe me, but not them;
The coffee drinkers,
Of Brushfield Street, London E1.