October 7, 2012 § Leave a comment

An entire life soaked into a few cells.

One by one, they fall away,

And time claims back that which it once owned.

Do we really own anything,

Even our memories?

Once they’re gone –

What then?

© Chris Young, 7 Oct 2012

Dementia concerns me. We all know that, after Tourettes, Senile Dementia is the funniest of all illnesses, and I thoroughly look forward to amusing my friends with my increasingly erratic memory-loss. It’s started already. I regularly lose entire conversations from my memory, and it’s not all to do with the drink. It happens when I’m stone-cold sober. I can only see it getting worse as I stumble headlong into the second half of my life.

I only hope that the things I will forget first are all the bad things in life. Like Bonnie Langford and Caramac.

But at least I’ll be able to watch all my dvds again and not know the endings.

Assuming, of course, I can remember how to work the player. And where I live.



October 29, 2011 § Leave a comment


Is that my life?

Open the drawer when I’m gone

And file here.


© Chris Young, October 2011

Old News

October 20, 2011 § 2 Comments

I gave my heart away

They never said I could have it given back

She gave it back to me squashed

She hadn’t taken care of it

© Chris Young, October 2011


October 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

I weep over this tomb

Covered in the dust of a thousand feet

And I wonder what can be said

Wandering through this cloud of fevers

An aching in my head

Wondering why

I seem to spend

All my time on the outside

Looking in

© Chris Young, 1989

Thomas Merton

October 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

Thomas Merton

Put a shirt on

In the monastery

The priest said “Tom

You are a one”

And went and ate a tree

© Chris Young, 1990

Black Dog

October 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

The Black Dog follows me

What is it he wants?

I dare not look at him

In case I see his eyes

I smell his hide

All sweat and rain

He makes no sound

He is all I hear

He makes no move

But he is always there

I cannot lose him

The Black Dog breathes in my ear

And I dare not inhale his breath

I dare not look over my shoulder

In case I see his eyes

What does he want?

Why does he follow me?

I am stifled

I cannot breathe

Or think

Or move

Or live

I feel old

It is all coming to an end

What does he want?

I dare not look at him

Why does the Black Dog follow me?

© Chris Young, December 2000


October 17, 2011 § Leave a comment

Where are you Elvis?

In heaven

Or in hellvis?

Or are you alive and wellvis,


© copyright Chris Young, October 2011

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