Tomorrow Belongs To Alex Harvey (a poem, after Dylan Thomas)

Tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.
Mewling sapling squeezed through
Creaking door, and crawling
Across years, decades, into
Sweet scraps and scraps of sweets,
Saps from seeds gathering dew.
And tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.

Tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.
We grapple ‘neath moist sheet,
Fleshy ripples, dark oval nipples,
Knotted limbs, grasping hands, feet,
Til we shudder and groan together,
Our Aidinic mantra complete.
And tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.

Tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.
An old man shudders, cold gale
Grapples his goose flecked flesh
As he shuffles to market, a sale
Of offal and kippers, slippers;
For his wife did a long time grow pale.
And tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.

Tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.
The bell tolls to no-one’s bidding,
Across years, decades, into the
Empty gale which goose flecks all
Of our skin in the end, sucks the
Flesh from us and grinds our bones.
And tomorrow belongs to Alex Harvey.