Somewhere under your skin
Is who you took for a lover,
But no longer does it,
Wandering altered and grieved.
Rattling and wrawling in corners
And occasionally casting a hook
At you in the hope of a bite or
A wheel rim at least to roll on with.
Scrub footed where once
Fleet feet swept and eternally
Circling your spires until crossed
With a path your reserves have
Staffed for such an occurrence;
Tumbling longer and hunched
As all for one withered and each
To their own chose another.
But try as you might you can’t
Hold her once cornered against
Steeple doors, even though you
Implore her to leave your arena
For a more condign site as the
One she is sponsoring can’t take
The trade, for she evades in that
Same stickled way that grated you
First and delivered good riddance;
Gone once again on beyond the
Domain you control with a thistle
Topped fire iron rod to the stretches
Of slag scum long shoveled away
From the blaze of your love.
And edges that live at the end
Of your mind are scraped by
Her heels every day as unable
To access the extremes you once
Could she dwells there heavily
With knowledge of weakness
And will. So on those mornings
When the nights have dissolved
As they should you send forward
More search party members, and
Wait for word of espial, but what
Sense this is makes mock of your
Optics as by the time you arrive
There’s no sign save the shine of
Fresh grazes; soiled with residual
Cells of a shade only recently found
On the spectrum and clearly flaked
In a rage of inertial proportions.
Stooped to the soot you fill
Test tubes with proof for later
Analysis, and condemn the stretch
Of sour blackened land. Still
There is enough to be on with
For tomorrow’s shape, and your
Once beloved’s sake; enough
For you to know, and her to be
Told once caught, that the only
Heart still holding out is yours
Regardless of which direction
The situation requires.
You had to listen before notice was
Proposed; for where would you have
Been without that first beat’s
Rent and recommendations: one
Vacant and the other prematurely
Vagrant; spilled without ever
Having shared a cup to run over
Or land to lay waste to, and
Standing forever one night at
A time at the back of love’s queue
Wondering what had happened
To her and would ever become
Of you. Fortune and fashion
Harangue though as, externally,
The half bitten whispers of friends
And neighbours purl. But noise
Is unable to infuse in the soup
You have boiling inside you at
The time being regardless of how
Much its content’s augmented;
You’re incapable of such cookery
Even as weather has brought to your
Eyes flinders of visible switches
And mixtures available for use;
Tinctures and soils and water
Borne aggregates awaiting a
Pinch of labour or toil to exhaust.
Impatient waves of hands align
Themselves towards the departure
Lounge nonetheless, although,
With best intentions, they’re senseless;
With knowledge of the context
They may’ve been able to soothe
And compose a blasted soul,
Or gently help them slew, but
She’s grafted true, and your dearest
Are deluded in their investment;
Unaware of what rages between
The head bones they know only
As father, son, brother, husband,
And so unlike their own; marked
By a version of work dissimilar to
The solidarity they make workable,
Supported by a purpose disposed
To a different design and sign
Posted away from communal
Roads to where only the fool hardy
Or imparted stroll their version of
Transcription and gently ignore
The exertions of accepted wisdom.
And your darling, so bestowed
Of more pledges than matrimony
Ever dreamed of, streams on in your
Sinews and veins, and all the will
In the world could harrow till
Churned and still not enforce a
Withdrawal from her or serve
To convince you of comfort.
Ground may be made safer
And soft by work offered on
Your behalf but it wouldn’t
Feel proper laying upon it
Knowing whose corpse supports
You. Let them go on with their
Breezing, believing you’re lazy,
And leave you to your own
Proposals; for in only a word
They convey more than concern
And it’s all you need to get by.
Though when next in communion
You’ve promised to do them the
Honour of more than a mere
Explanation; until then listen
When able, nod when capable
And smile every time they hail,
Whilst trying not to tip off your
Girl, for she would surely attempt
To gain the favour or sympathy
Of whoever calls. So make haste
To have all hatches battened
And entrances blocked, and
Please ensure exit doors are
Propped open ready to close,
For although you want rid,
You don’t need her exposed
To the ridicule of a crucifixion
Mob. Even if the doom of
Martyrdom suited her it’s not
Something she would have sought;
This is strictly not a spectator sport.
Never peccable in actions
Anyway, or criminal enough to
Warrant anybody else’s conviction,
She is your concern and there will
Be no need to outsource this court.
And as days break into hours and
Then minutes, and inevitably
Finish, you find your sweat is
The only timepiece bequeathed:
In the afternoon you pool more, by
Evening tide you’re waxed, come
Midnight you are tropical and as
Dawn falls raw fluid extracts its
Vengeance, but was she at three
O’clock or six or nine or were
Those sightings traverses in time;
A quarter vine plant dangling in
Front of a water blinked eye.
Were the details viable? Or were
Your sources bought by her story’s
Plight; swung low by her chariot’s
Broken axle and bribed to bring
You swinging on corroding ropes
That frayed once you let go.
To be stranded in a vale with only
Scrapings of failure and scraps of
A passage allowing nothing but
Doubt to remain, and only then
One that nobody but you can
Prosecute as its sole purpose is
To prolong your suffering. Drones
Know nothing but what they’re
Told and not what’s been known.
Still here you straighten for over
A hill floats her humour and it’s
Amusing how time leaves the worst
Flecks in its wake, whilst stealing
The perfect, and forces you to
Chase them long after they’ve
Gone into areas never meant
To be entered, and with their
Rot in your nostrils and fresh
Memory of what it once was.
But the attendant who told
You to venture this far from
The safety of swither insists he
Was with her and called you
According to instructions given;
Though he appears to be septic,
Or by light infected, as his pallor is
Jaundiced, the colour of morning
Piss, and he’s lolling too much
To be clear. His sleeve blots the
Froth on his lips as his balance
Collapses though once seated he
Keeps to his story and all you can
Do is applaud his resolve and send
Him for salve to your staff room.
Then over outcrops you set off
On this word of another who’s
Rendition of anguish was etched
Into him recently after so many
Years of peace; old atoms of
Absolute certainty scattered.
And attempting to defend him
Whilst gaining altitude induces
Its own daze, which is, at least,
A blessing, as upon topping
A slope’s progress the rest it
Allows hardly hallows regardless
Of how you entreat its peaks.
There are reaches here beyond
Scope, beyond what you ever
Imagined, evidently stretched
Farther than fundamental
Lengths had ever been meant
To be and whipping up signals
Of haze that sully the way ahead:
For these are the plains of the
Future she has lured you to and
They scream her name; a view
Of yield undone by greed,
Unknown to need and sown
Because its seed was never retched
Correctly, and here it is from
One end of this outland to another.
A vision pillaged from the finest
Science fiction writer’s quill of
Multiple directions where to wend
And winding to the crest of other
Hills till angled back upon themselves
Again. And somewhere in the
Tangle down below her feet have
Left themselves a reference point
To follow, or potential roads full
Of trends conceived in a vernal
Heart’s dream. And from this
Meridian, unlike the media of
Youth, you can see the vantage
Point of mental strength owes little
To the ways of age as all these routes
Are decorated better than the trek
Up to them where your footprints
Mirrored hers in time as well as space.
This mazed place resonates with
The spill of her decoration and is
The epitome of taste and vacancy
And the greatest aid to you should
You so chose: the one longed to
Be given since rifts cleft deeper
Than intended, but also the gift
Most feared as it splits into threads
Decisions that once had held
Said fissures closed; Less than
One illusive cobbled lane, whose
Ten foot width recalls a childhood’s
Games, and more than adults in
Complete agreement. But it’s
Hard to have the best of both
Worlds, or whatever constitutes
The propagation of more than one
Globe in your hold, for eternity
Or a tormented moment, even
Aware of the options; as strewn
Down numerous sides and settled
In the bottom hollows are possibilities
Clumped like moss at the foot of
Gutter pipes from last night’s thunder
Strikes, awaiting your inquiry.
Fall then for them, she tempts,
Though you rather think more time
Than is displayed below should be
Spent before you do, but on looking
Round to retrace your steps, and
Embrace contemplation, you find
That you’re not able as your track
Has blended into further versions
Of futurity. And now stuck with
Each foot astride a crowning
There really is not that much
Left to do but roll and let sobriety
Conduct you to the nearest pool.
A step is stretched into a lope
And rambling down the most
Oblique degree the air swells with
The heady melt of elderberry,
Culled from bedtime talk specifically
To mask any obvious trace of her,
And it staggers you until you
Do eventually fall into the nearest
Cavity. Unable to keep your
Feet you dip knee deep in what
You thought was mould but up
Close acts like volcano dirt turfed
Out where, clinging firm and filling
Every gap of cloth and skin,
Swindling the air, you fail and slip
Beneath its surface lip of ash.
There is a lull before eyelashes
Unfold their pilum tips, and
Separate themselves across the
Liquid of your sight, flicking at
Each other every second until
You see again. And what seeing
Is done in this one spot alone:
Chosen by the closeness of
Descent and chance of angle are
Fancies and figures half recognized,
Famed paradigms re-organized,
Fresh faces tumbling otherwise,
Lightly clipped sounds amplified
And unknown wraiths and shapes
Colourized out of their caves.
Not unlike the cartoon stars of
The suddenly stopped are the
Swimming images arranged;
Twinkling through the surface
Murk of another world’s air and
Spinning faster as their yet to be
Events unfurl. And in the central
Band of Saturn rings her face,
Ageing better than celestial, is
Noticing and focusing horizons
Of interest: a girl, a boy, a third,
The whirl and joys of babies long
Fought over and forgotten, born
Now in the sprinkle of an instant
And grown older in stop motioned
Glory; gathered round a grey
Haired beneficiary and all bearing
The same face as you, but with the
Lines of another rejuvenating it
And shining with fond radiance.
The smiles of these insets file to
The centre of this universe’s circuit
Where you sit proud to receive
Them one by one. And then
You’re gone. And the blackboard
Chalk that covered you and
Brought this story rubs itself
Away and leaves its mark, and
The pictures posted through your
Letterbox, though wanton, are
As well known to you as wishes
Thrown in every fountain ever
Met, and of course this was her
Point; her pen’s intention. Then
Over there are more, and in all
The recesses seen from up above:
Different polar systems of her love,
With options altered, outcomes
Changed, potential children named
And always her ingrained, always
There to shame. But this you’ve also
Known and still insisted on the one
Exhibit none of these exposures
Will ever show: you sat here alone.
And the only thing for certain,
As you rise, is the absence of her
Present self in which ever disguise
You may have wandered into, as
Only desires pelt you, not her:
The yet and never met to come
That all may wallow in or ponder
On for moments in those closest
To elation, but dare not dwell
Within or set a stall to catch an
Eye. These themes she steals and
Pitches at your thirst are only what
You talked about, not ordered.
So onward, and the first skinny
Rise attired you climb again,
And through filters lensed against
The interference you hope to see
More clearly, for maybe on ahead
Of all the blurs that beckon you may
See her figure and hand signals
Flashing. But the road not took
Will not be strode today as, once
Ascended, the quarried pits that only
Seconds early exceeded events
Dissolve away and all that stretches
Onwards are some familiar but
Infrequently supported paths.
And the scenery around them is
Untouched by any traveler but
Anima, and stretched to your
Very ends; about as welcoming to
Her as you could be. Even from
The farthest flag of land that
Ripples in the distance there is
Calm and a scarcity of options.
Though still in yonder vineyards
She drags her tail and rails against
Removal; you can feel her claws
And thorns tearing little slits
And being as ornery as before.
More so now as slide shows failed
To move you onward to forgiveness;
As if a party mix played from your
Bar room’s nickelodeon could
Ever be enough to set you freely
Singing back upon a chord towards
Her; forgetting what has snapped
So firmly fast. But not beyond
Offered borders can she have
Forwarded herself as now your
Sense and its intentions have
Re-established their command
There really are no more events.
And now you come to think about
It there can be no doubting it
That you were led into those
Bunkers by false pretenses: the
Flunky who informed you must
Have been a plant to ward you
Into those preferred disclosures.
And that is the most worrying
Thing of all, as long feared:
Incursion, collusion, persuasion
And its music played upon your
Securer moods. Awaiting for a
Turn of enervation to affect
Your better judgment, and the
Slotting of the coin yourself;
Playing on the furthest palisade
And aided by your pity. But
Then your fences never were
That strong out here among the
Circumnavigated strands of
What you might do, or improve,
Or where you’ll lightly shoo
Older readings of younger words
Into belief, and this makes you
Realize where next she’s bound
To make you hear her, where
Time has been and done its best
And worst on her appearance:
In the past. The already gone
And commented on; grandly
Thatched with sanctioned
Stalks, and fixed in film of clear
Crinkled cellophane for you to
Smooth when feeling blue or breezy.
Stacked in shipping boxes locked
For transit to and from a billion
Random points and never late unless
A weighty wine lake sank their ship
Or ploughed into a heavy beverage’s
Wake. Full blown memories or
Snippets clipped form every source,
And reinforced when tipped from
Ends of tongues by finger flicks
Upon computer keys. For there it
Is that person’s name, or claim to
Fame, or two across or numbered
Game, and here it hangs that
Mumbled song that first belonged
To love, or choral suite that
Pierced any doubt of God’s
Involvement. And all their small
Details complete another crate
To join the next craft’s manifest.
Pictures scanned in milliseconds
And bleared down years of reckless
Lunacy; words turned out of
Mouths and rearranged to suit
The bubbles of your choice; scents
Associated with aftershaves and
Labeled with that year’s seizure
Whose touch and taste and
Preferences are matched to
Recall avoidance, and all those
Moments of anticipated dismissal
Or unexpected resignation are
Separated into who initiated what
And why and when. And there
She’ll be: ashore with heavy
Glasses set to spy her trophies’
Boat; waiting for a signal’s
Flair to advertise its transit. But
Unless she’s followed closely
How your engrams are transferred
She may be for a shock, as
Once docked these freighters are
Quite grand: lashed as castles in
The sky to pastured clouded buoys;
Vaster than the draughted quilt
These sky matters romance upon
And faster than the average neuron
As you’re sober as a judge’s whore
These days and twice as bright. But
Still the endless headlands need
Attention, and you’d best be sure
The spotters sent are shades of
Self more worthy of your trust
And scathing of her touch. Less
Likely to be indigent, or in thrall
Of things recited in night ears
And succumbed to slumbered
Requisites, and readers lest they
Write the wrong incitements
Tempered into them by her
Artillery. So on leaving for your
Heartland you apply the tape of
Crime scenes right across these
Kingdoms yet to come in the
Hope that signs left clear behind
Will discourage further heirs
From venturing their drool here.
Sweeping any leaves of future
Growth out of your skull via
The tiny trepanned sky light
You had installed one awful
Night in therapy; that time of
Low involvement when the owner
Of one of those fore mentioned
Memory collections had you
Barreled by the balls and stuffed
In sideways, roughly prized out and
Fucked in every other rural sized
Way available to the likes of them:
Those pompous crowing mother’s
Girls whose family business runs
No further than a cattle herd and
Only ever takes a turn at insurrection
Once the government declares
Their cows completely mad. A
Nicely surfaced northern girl
But with more issues than a street
Seller’s magazine, and not even
The intelligence to tell what
Colours suited unless told.
Still, incredibly beautiful, if
Ill equipped with modesty and
Knowing, and able to lay you
Lower than last year’s road
Coating. That’s when residency
Took over and the sorcerer
On call suggested a radical
Approach which lets the rain
In to this day. But the little bit
Of air brick has its uses when
In need of hiding places, and
Once directions to the foreground
Court of this theatre of hypotheses
Are suitably shuttled from your
Brain you turn and head for home.
And as swift as thoughts, and twice
The flight of words latched
Onto them, you’re back at lodge
Before your stooges realise,
And presidential with it. Around
Is quickly called this ever changing
Band of awe enhancers, and
Their trains of neophytes: the
Eager and their eaglets ready
To perform another ritual of
Allegiance once you’ve told them
Where you’ve been and what
You’ll do when a certain turncoat’s
Caught - who apparently appears
To have melded into the walls
Of an empty cubicle somewhere
Or has blended into a cellar full of
Similar villains. And so they
Swear repeatedly they’ll never let
The temptress in their lair
Appeal for leniency, regardless
Of her beauty or beguiles, and
Accept your blessings as they
Always have, and then once more
With the voice that every crowd
Allows to accent it. And once told
Their next appointments you
Handpick the best pursuers,
Attach to each group a viewer
And a troop of swarthy screws to
Secure her once acquired. Then
As the blinking eyes of climates
And tempers tally in a balanced
Manner you set them free with
A firm understanding of failure;
To the ramparts in order to see
Her before order is diseased
By her watered toe. They leave
In less than a second’s breath
With no doubt of expectations:
No hope of return without a
Bound and netted entity to
Finally expel. And once they’re
Gone the silence swears an oath
All of its own as deportment is
Withdrawn from cavern walls,
Regaled with seasonal swill, and
You take your leave to set down
In praise of night’s reprise and the
Dismantled landscape of a sweet
Untrammelled sleep; however
Unlikely on the back of today’s
Exertions. Still the light switch
Demands a speck of attention;
A suspension of your stress. The
Watchmen are off and your
Scurried dispatched and the
World outside will survive another
Turn without your participation,
And the head tappers and hunters
Employed to shunt you from
Your torpor and drag you along
Their rails will no doubt sleep as well.
Day will away with its segments
Regardless of whether you swoon
In time, and of that there is a
Rare bald spot up in the sky tonight
Where clouds have fallen out of
Fare and a darkened scalp of
Stellar flakes spreads itself, and
Beneath this your weariness
Negotiates its space. The muzzle
Of a full stop is still elusive,
Although asleep at least you
Can enjoy the void; that toyed
With tabloid confessional
Of the body’s business, where
Background interference, the
Buzz conducted circuitry, the
Hiss of fallen stories and fizz of
Feral beasts are overhauled and
Kept in separate tents invested
With a skin of breathless velum.
Same as your machine’s greeting
When returned once stripped
Of another lover’s substance,
Either went or sent, but more
So when the former option has
Been improvised and cobbled
To the end of earnest sentences
Faulting yourself. Right, and not
Like she was vain or dull or fat or,
God forbid, featureless, or simply
Resistible, and your partnership
Not a nightmare that only ending
Could halt. And as guiltless such
Is this little quietus, where nothing
More severe wanders than slight
Unguarded moments of abandon;
Strained of ordered laws, though
Regular, and where the only view of
Fugitives is from the pack about
To manhandle them away. Ah
The bliss of an eviscerated brain;
Some suffer the reverse, but then
They suffer fools as well from
Birth.....subsequent trains may
fall behind a schedule beyond
your control, so if you wish to
alight we suggest you take this
opportunity to do so, avoiding
the gap of course, unless you
wish to fall beneath the coach,
stepping off the rails and
into the arms of another form
of transport which may approach,
because some unfortunate souls
actually decided to wait for the
next connection some years ago,
at this terminus, but did not know
that their venture would be fraught
with danger, as the station is
situated next to the inferno that
is constantly ablaze and berating,
as well as the fact that their
intended lift is always in transit
elsewhere and never actually takes
the time to stop for collection and
indeed doesn’t dare, because if
you haven’t already gathered
this is the last stop on the line,
the next being less defined as
it were: it’s not parallel or level
or even, but the other side of the
sign.....Your peace is all too
Brief, though once conscious
And shook of mucus and shed
Skin you feel refreshed, and
Ready to begin again manmade,
Playing round the bends and
Endless niches until you feel
Sufficient to re-create the day
In the image of your choice.
After all you threw away the
Style rules a while ago and
Made your rose tinted glasses
Unfashionable in favour of a thornier
Variety: a visual array of owner
Powered blinkers sifting the
Dark as well as light extremes
Of status; the blunt and sharp
Particles that sting and hurt and
Love and hate us more than solar
Systems. Protection from the
Fuel of another’s passion, and
In view of the sun, until right
Enough to walk into and know
Your shade will fail to hide her.
The elements of morning are
Crackling but their bivouac is
Lacking its sundry kettle keepers
And fetching flatbread sellers,
Stretched everywhere between
Here and eternity. Maybe, you
Think, once she’s brought before
You and gone, you’ll take a
More permanent residence for
Your chambers, or a summer
Camp at altitude, or maybe stay
Away completely, dust covering
Most items with your previous
Evening’s airless cloth. Dwelling
Is fine but stewing won’t do.
But contact is needed now so
You make haste along the
Likeliest avenue towards the
Largest storage hold where
The bulk of your most cherished
Retentions are sited for speedy
Retrieval or shipment. Any
Lasting damage or light attacks
Are apt to happen there, between
The import and exporting flumes,
The sorting and restoring rooms,
The conveyor belted long vacuums
That filter through its fortress;
Where the slightest tweak of
Picture check or pencil wreck
Would offset a whole season’s
Worth of treasure or turn her
Pain’s presence into pleasure,
And clap your best intentions back.
The track is stacked along its way
With travelers and stragglers
Rushing to their stations; all
Saluting as you pass and masking
Their thus far failed investigations;
Alternatively milking and mooing
Depending upon which end of
The group they’re at. You’ve
Really got to do something
About these sycophants or they’ll
Make a meal out of you before
This day’s done. Truly trust is
Better spread on the freshest
Bread and not some of these
Heels who’ve been tasteless
For years and whose tales you
Were told as a kid and pitied;
Proverbs worded and cursed
By earth turning serfs, poets
And bards, brave home guards,
Showmen, artists, hardened hearts
And people personally charted
And compassed for their council;
Their ears and eyes and instant
Messaging much better than the
Quickest phone, or so once thought.
And all along the boulevards of
Neural pathways, marked in
Fluorescent ink, are words
Encouraging these vagaries to
Speed and urgency; for the
Longer they ferment their way
To stalemate the broader her
Influence will become, and
Sooner or later there’ll be no
One but you to face her down,
And though she’s hardly quick,
She’s slick enough to rally round
Some of your finest friends
And enemies for eventual misuse.
And God only knows what would
Occur should she be able to
Sway one of the recent lovers
You have tucked away in chains,
Not for bondage play, but for
Your safety. Though to be fair
Most of them were nowhere near
As wild as she and her adherence,
Well not recklessly. So as you
Pass you ask your doubts to clear
Out before you meet them
And return to the coves where
First they seeded; now is not
The place to taste their wares
Or feel their needles pin you
In their cushion; for though
Compassion bore you from
Formative years to here you
Know the only way to deal
With her is firmly, the only
Words to say are certain and
Only hurting will heal the burns
She’s earned, slipped and slid
And skidded from your grasp
This past infinity. Slow rises
Follow from the frowns of
Furrowed valleys until the
Harbour of your will greets
Your suddenly slowed feet,
And there in the mist of system
Valves and processors rotating ifs
And buts and finished information
Projects is your operation’s
Premier dock; your settings’
Checker and stock control;
Slowing down and sidling bits
Of data and strips of logic and
Anthropic stems of essential
Content. Sifters, sieves and
Siphons spilling in their millions
The caterpillar strands and
Electrolytes of life’s own latest
News, imbued with useful purpose:
The best chips stripped, the
Rest shipped out the other ear,
And packaged in the dead
Cell paper that you’re set to
Patent as soon as you can extract
It. The derricks of an earlier
Age of steam driven ambition
Hurtle this work, and jettied next
To them, in berths that stretch
For years, are the flagships of
Your mind whose upper decks
Are lost inside its fog; moored
Without tide constraints as no
Moons rule the calendars of plasm.
And somewhere deep between
These giant steeds and dock
Wall feeder strips she’ll be;
Unseen by agents and waiting
For a busy moment’s bustle
To effect her next adventure.
You pass the adult boundary, laid
Down in teenage days to keep out
Childhood fears, loaded with
Stewards belaboured since then
And the most worthy of your
Men, and enter the terminal.
There you call forth your
Most useful archivist and ask
After the current fugitive;
“No sign of as yet”, he replies,
Neither here nor there or
Offset against hidden skies
Traversed by his fellows. So
Onward you go to the main
Office row to revue where next
To pursue her, but as soon as you
Swing through the grand regent
Doors you’re assailed by a long
Burrowed voice. “There son,
She blows”, says this herald of
Woe, who you recognize from
Years gone by: a miserable
Soul, who with zeal enrolled
In every class of apology, and
Such figure of fun who had
Nowhere to run except into
The arms of theology. But you
Give him his head and of the
Riddle he read you request him
To hasten embellishment, and
He says “Onto the ship, the one
On the lip of this mooring
She crept whilst sleep held”,
Laughing like hell as he went.
And all rhyme and reason left
With him as theories evenly fell
And bellows held. And as you
Have him convoyed to a cage
Beyond the building the hum
Of grind and grist and long
Shore man shifts falls still. You
Scoot without care through the
Cloisters of your choicest and
Out into the swarm of forms
And fillers still in the wake
Of broken news, all shaking
Their heads at each other in
Recognition of its impact and
Their possible loss. You roll up
To the ganger to stand demanding
Answers, which, experienced
As he is, he is unable to grant.
So you go over the dockside with
Soldiers and boat guides and onto
The vessel in question with blessings
And thanks for those in the know.
But none are forthcoming as all
Are as dumb as their gaffer,
And dafter than laughing gas,
And unaware of unwarranted
Crew. So still she is able to
Drape herself over any edge
She chooses, and meddle with...
What?...What’s loading this
Moment? What’s been boxed
For a slot on this voyage? For
Why is this cattleship wharfed?
And how’s she got aboard?
The master of the helm is sharp
To attend once bawled for
And brings with him charts and
What bills of lading and loading
Lists he’s been saddled with,
And spreads them on the deck.
And after searching as thickly as
Quickness allows you bow to
The knowledge of others to
Show what’s been stowed, as
All you can find are teeming scenes
Of splendid caress and their calm.
But captains have crews to
Identify freight, and its intended
Placement, and the first mate
Is sharper than seconds and
Pinpoints the most likely item:
The very first moment you
Sighted her. But that makes no
Sense, as this was always a prime
Numbered event, a principal
Dent, a cementing of exception;
Why need she alter the birth of
Her format or corrupt its code?
What good would be achieved if
Her finest minute was stolen
Or impeached or altered by
A bleaching resentment when
That time is more sacred than any.
But then maybe that many noses
Need to be severed to arouse a
Response other than shoving.
And that brings more matters
To the fore, such as have her
Symbols already been bundled
Onboard or are they still stored
In your think tanks ashore?
A ring of protection is quickly
Projected along the ship’s rail
And word flung as far as the
Goods yard for ratification,
As a search is assayed in the
Vessel’s first levels to allay
Any immediate fears of her.
But if she’s got here without
Being seen then its safe to
Assume that her bravery’s in
Tune with your actions, and
Likely as not you won’t catch
Her. And, just like an alchemist’s
Failure, first reports of sightings
Are returned with a certainty’s
Yawning regalia and waver of
Vocal accords, which you’ll
Need to appease as quickly as
You can if your goals are to be
Secured. So cool is assured
And persons assuaged and
Gadabouts sent further down,
As a tumult of noise from the
Office surrounds you confirming
Your wares are safe and sound
And still hung in their cupboard
And covered with other more
Durable feelings, and faith,
Hope and charity peelings not
Needed elsewhere. So back on
To dry land leaving resolve in
Command of the rat catchers,
Sniffer dogs and snoops, and
Straight to the strongbox shewed.
Commotion is common amongst
The dead headed but as soon
As they see you they’re soothed,
And part the way for your wave
To wash up to the agency door,
Where sentinels swell you
To the stevedore chief, who’s
Gangly stance is not quite as
Inspired as it should be. He
Welcomes you into his oak
Covered room, replete with
A seaman’s veneer of nautical
Gear: oil lanterns and glass
Lamps and examples of lenses,
Samples of angular units; brass
Anchors and chains of all sizes
And shapes and locking blocks
Ancient and new; scale model
Schooners and pictures of clippers
And parts of a yawl’s mizzen
Mast, and slightly off centre,
Above where his head went,
A wheel cast in high relief bas.
He takes his seat and requests
You do likewise and pulls out the
Plans of his deep castle keep,
Where the most valuable items
Are stored, and points to the
Parcel you seek. You ask for
Directions and over your
Shoulder he shouts for his
Clerk to accompany you there,
And a lithe girl appears with a
Strange backlit face and leads
Down a hatch at the side.
After a series of conical stairs
You arrive at a huge vault like
Door, where upon a few words
From the clerk that you really
Should know but do not, it
Swings wide like the arc of a
Badly tilled yacht. A corridor
Brushed with graphite tiles
Calls you under and, half way
In, the door closes behind, and
Lead lined becomes the covering,
Lit by a series of fairy light
Sized bulbs. At the end of the
Hall is a small enclosed chamber
With robed sides of cinnabar
Flax which is centered by a walnut
Table bearing several bell jars
And cigar boxes; Cuban of
Course. And it’s always amazing
When you come across a place
Of such importance as this and
Have no recall of its creation,
But such things, you guess,
Are best left to the vagaries
Of an ordered sub-conscious.
Even if you had a reasonably
Tidy childhood some spaces
Are better off decorated by
Professionals who know how
To infuse the exquisite description
Of the ordinary with the exceptional’s
Plain phrased detail. And this
Room is certainly that, with its
Intricate balance of plain panelled
Floor and revolutionary walls.
You turn to the clerk, but she’s
Gone, so you think nothing of it;
The discretion of deposit box
Staff, when a telephone bell calls
Your attention to the table,
And there behind its display
She stands, shed of office cloth
And ill lit mask - your last
Love: trickier than traps, and
Somehow shimmied from
The ship outside, disguised,
And travelled here with you;
To her treasures it seems. You
Salute her spirit, but mindful
Of her condition, and still
Listening to the gentle chimes
Of your objects, you enquire
What sleights she intends to
Perform now cornered in
The course of subversion. But
She holds up a bristle tipped
Finger to her lips and assumes
A most prickliest pose as she
Indicates the first ringing pot
On the table top. You step a
Small tread but it’s stopped
By the dread of her stare and
The hovering barbs of her paw,
Glancing the jar, as if daring
You further than you already are.
Then smiling she sheds all the
Briars and burrs of her previous
Work and places a beautiful
Hand on the glass; lifting the
Still trilling pot and silencing
Its thrill. And with that particular
American level of politeness,
That masks extremes whilst
Revealing degrees, she says:
“First were my words” and the
Ringing becomes something
Similar as the lips of the jar begin
Singing the lyric that you never
Forgave her for. A simple hypnotic
Chocolate box promise, a hymnal
Parole, that sold herself to you
When first heard from over your
Shoulder. From that world of
Platonian dialogue and imagined
Vacuum via an air bridge between
That was set and erected by
Her voice. Stretched around
Vowels of no particular heart
Stopping purpose, but none the
Less able to halt and turn you
Once said; “Hello, how are you?”
And much richer once heard
Than when read. Coated by
A throat of assembled characters
Who must surely have smoked,
Drunk and swallowed the world’s
Chastened worst and elastically
Coughed up its most glorious
Best in honest though dissonant
Verse. Made self aware and astir
And floated with a rainbow
Builder’s skill and claiming you
As eagerly as records achieved
By the breaking of barriers
Once guaranteed. After allowing
The sound to revolve and
Remind you of its recurring
Appeal she smiles once again
And moves onto the table’s
Next item: a dusty box once
Said to contain 24 no.1 cigars
Of the finest enticement, but
Obviously full of other smoke
And mirrors now. Again she
Flexes her fingers before you,
Expecting a comment of some
Kind or simply eliciting misgiving,
But you are still listening to the
Previous track and have no noise
Of your own. So deciding to ignore
You she digs a finger into the box
And lifts up its top towards her,
Lengthening the tension and
Focusing your mind eventually.
She works it round, and transfixed
To its lid is a single image of her
Face. The same shot you had
Expected but still able to make
Breath exhale and concentrate
The mind as though she had no
Shape but that of air itself that
Had seeped inside. Though looks
Are said to kill, hers stills further
Now than when you first turned
And took it. Dripping with detail
Others say they are incapable of
Accurately recalling when most
Needed, but not you, who has
Always been able to count the
Crystals in her eyes and, once
The motion of moving pictures
Took over, the blinks that
Momentarily obscured them.
You were always competent enough
To re-create the colour and
Composition of her skin, and
Simple indentations of her
Creases; always fit to feel the
Strength of her smile as those
First words trailed away and
Left a perfect turn behind, and
Always, always sure enough to
Trace her outline even with a mind’s
Eye as rickety as any alcoholic’s
Hand and twice as addled by
Intoxicants. And there she was:
As new and true and beautiful
As life intended; the point of
Its constant cycle of birth and
Recurrent animation, and the
Inevitability of its ending and
Remembrance; the reason
Sane creatures endure the
Knowledge of life’s events
Without resorting to the
Damning and defaming of
Their author and the unforgiven
Sin of self destruction. Although
You may have to question your
Own sanity as this performance
Dances before you: its sound
And sight and whatever she
Is about to release from the
Third receptacle, which she
Has moved onto and appears
To be smaller than the bell jar,
With a small hose leading slowly
From it to the table surface, and in
Whole resembling an old fashioned
Atomizer. But of course you know;
For after her words and appearance
The next thing she gave was
Her fragrance. And there it flows,
Expelled from the perfume
Bottle in front of you: the smell
Of the hunter; the scent of
Desire confronted. And more
Than the first two symbols,
Which since the beginning have
Remained manifestly composed,
The tone of her aroma has
Assailed you from the massed
Ranks of olfactory work places:
Glossies and glam mags, street
Sellers and stalls, department
Stores and two in the morning
Whores whose attraction was
Lathered on to dazzle and bag
The drunkard. You had assumed
A while ago to put that perfume
In a bottle marked ‘Best Avoid’,
But always on those days when
Synchronicity announced a
Coincidence and it’s been left off
The list of things to be de-cluttered
Ever since. And now watching her
Transform behind an ordinary
Table from a worn hided recital
Into a fable’s noble-mindedness,
An original sinless creature’s tale,
Leaves a bitter taste in your
Mouth and a pair of strangler’s
Hands that not even whatever
Mementoes are in boxes 4 and 5
Will be able to redact or
Romanticise. And what of the
Sum of these parts if what
They have become has annulled
Them; turned quiet, crispy,
Crumbled over time into a
Wreck whose crime was you
And therefore whose punishment
Is also. To wallow in you until
The last of your chances are
Cancelled out and you slip
Exhausted into a history where
The puzzle pieces first fit, and
Decide to stay there witless.
But these are your memories, and
Before she reminds you of their
Biting and swallowing or passes
You more to rip a heart out with
You’re going to reclaim them
For times when a comfort break
Calls, or you’ve need to empty
All, or want to hollow yourself
Or wade through a sea of souls
To the foot of ideal foundations
On your own fucking terms.
Where age cannot bully them;
Where they are pretty, and
Chubby with it, and no one
Gets skittish at the thought of
A little blubber. Where you
Can walk down any street and
The babies hanging from every
Pram don’t shout “DAD” at
Each passing man, or mothers
Dump them in favour of a more
Savoury vice, a spicier life full
Of adulterers and junk. And
Not where you’re criticized for
Knowing your left from your
Right, as stupidity is rife and
Worshiped, and our weakness
As a species is the ability we
Have to slaughter each other,
Whilst our strength is the
Tendency to sacrifice ourselves
Whilst doing so. Where the
Meaning of past acts reflect
Themselves in the place you are
At and not where you thought you
Should reside or occupy because
You trawled so. The threat of
Destination hovers over heads
And pumps a blood vein faster
Than before, though why the
Need of knowledge led you to
Discover such is elusive now.
It could be curiosity, long feline
Fled, proposed the search or
Maybe inquisition came to call;
Investigation said assess me as
You crawl, or research testing
Shed Its wherewithal. A semblance
Of exclusion said “Why don’t you
Look beyond her?” And looking
Brought you here instead,
Away from correspondence.
Derision and scorn and all
Their derivatives live in you,
And hike down from their
Mountain when you’re seen
To be agreeable and stop for
A soda whilst unloading;
Backpacking older adjectives
For when it’s announced you
Refuse to be bruised and moving
To uproot you with future proofed
News of ridicule and rudeness,
Or a flash of past glory in their
Spittle and carbonized spite.
But they are not in her, not
While she’s here anyway, living
Off your recall, your scrap
Book, your safely locked diary
Clippings and shunted warm
Front. When she turned milk
It was soured elsewhere – this
Particular out pouring is all
Yours, and if you cannot get
A grip and rid yourself of her
Current state, discreetly if
Need be, then she’ll curdle
Every cup of cream you have
Stored in every refrigerated
Trailer you own; as ruined as
A day begun by seeing your
Reflection in a mortician’s
Window. You know how things
Fell when you went: one day
A crease appeared in your
Particular English resolve
And there were no choices
Left; you stayed as long as you
Did because of the alternatives.
And there’s nowhere worth that.
The big fall cigarette became
A chorus that by dawn had
Coughed its tune too strong;
Its sound became a song that
Dangled the promise of previous
Belongings. Formerly blown from
The mouth with the forward
Momentum of words, but then
Swallowed and kept for a cancer’s
Reward for services earned and
Deserved. A wished incision in
Air envisioned far; steel levered
In to peel the sides apart; passed
Pieces of molasses battlements
Into a universe of less torrent.
Encased in the finest phrase of flattery
And escaping from the glades of
People trees, where rooted in a
Pastoral idyll lies the goodliness
Of former lives and times.
You’re really shit at relationships,
But this score draw was worse.
Though her body was able to
Manufacture the sort of crisis
That pressures you to return
Or face abortion. Especially
At the start when you first met
And were unsure of why, and
At the end when finally left
And was sure of flight; the
Same information was evenly
Applied, “I’m with child don’t
You know, so come back or
We die.” So you said pop to the
Doctors and have yourself looked at.
She was the kind of woman
Who shouldn’t have children, and
Her kids the kind of brats who
Shouldn’t have pets, and her
Pets the kind of animals who
Wished they were extinct. She
Kept on screaming at you in that
Alcoholic rage and you couldn’t
Get a word in edge ways. And
When you could you told her
You didn’t want to be with her
Because she was gone, and she’d
Leave and call you two hours later,
Wasted, and ask why you said
Those things, and you’d be left
With such laughter. Low ebb?
You had no ebb. Folded double
In a cupboard as the creeping
Red carpet came under the door,
And unable to flow away. But then
Every generation mounts its own
Enquiry; revising long held givens
Once there are no descendants
Left, and no one to offend. You
Tried to pacify one difference
At a time, but by then they were
Arguing amongst themselves;
Altruism is supposed to inspire
And encourage us to good, not
Spur to murder. Though you had
To try to reconcile because if you didn’t,
You wouldn’t, and you wanted to.
But we all return from meetings
With people we’ve loved knowing
Less than we did when we left
Them, and so it was with you,
On numerous days when discussion
Failed and her face increased and
Voice pleaded for one more round.
We can’t go back, and burn our
Bridges to confirm the fact. So
Convince her to accompany you
To her panic room, and study
Her first blooms of you; canvas
Her for the first yearning she
Had as you passed and caused
Her to throw a moment’s hello
At your back. What instinct
Attracted discourse with a
Stranger; male in its audacity,
Impertinent in nature. Be the
Lord of your story, not this
Votary; be the soul you always
Wanted to be, not the ageing
Ramped or the crazed young
Man; the hen pecked damned
Or besotted lamb; the politically
Ample or pious mendicant; the
First word forged shambles or
Last brash monologue’s rambling;
The red raw written hand and
Lifted manuscript’s canter.
Certainly not the lucky bloomed
Or his luckless doomed, or
Creature fleeted to assume he
Has sufficient headlock room,
And not the fucking monster
You’ve become or the dewy
Eyed hunter of one, who
Followed a path he shouldn’t
Have done and fell from it half
Way along, landing without a
Leg to stand on or pot to piss in
Once thrift was done. Not him.
You. And all vainglory can
Remove itself to a chamber
In the tainted land of your choice;
Over hung with those swinging
Time conscious vines that shed
More frets than their work
Deserves and never need their
Pendulums resetting. She does
Not need to be there either;
Nothing does but dust and
Its slowly coating echoes.
For when edged towards a
New found understanding of
Pace and its directions there
Are only two choices: if you
Have got to walk then away
With pavements and curbs as the
Straightest path between points
Will suffice, and if crawling calls
You after feet burst then follow
Elbows flight; or stick to the
Track, where the point of the
Keeping to the path exercise is
To cross as few streets as possible.
And if allowed that love is hollow
Then up and be along tomorrow;
Swiftly ridged and gone forever
With a motion makers blurred
Endeavour. So make her humble,
Before she releases the contents
Of the two table cages remaining,
Which probably contain the primordial
Logics which never applauded many
Of your wanderings anyway, but
Now, after the release of external
Senses, are the only two tender
Mentions left. For what else
Could be in those unexpended
Containers? The likeliest, most
Intimate and literal first contacts:
The touch and taste of her mouth,
The synch of lips; the article of
Faith most covenanted, rendered
Into a single instant speck that
You’ve never been able to
Replicate, even on the quietest
Night. For how could this be
Kept alive? What pixel, decibel
Or ambient equivalent could
There be for a glancing of tongues
And teeth? There are no digital
Songs or pictures to download,
No samples of plastic sealed
Stink to represent the first kiss.
It just is, and was freely released
Upon it conception to wander
Your caves unchained, and try
As you have to net this butterfly
Stitch all you’ve ever come back
With are moths. But how, if she
Has, did she get it? And what, if
She did, has she done? What
Course could she in the hold of
Anomie have taken in tracking
Such elusive prey when you
Aligned have failed so often as
To nail its coffin shut? And what
In all honesty could she do to
Something so ephemeral, that
It has caused voided night
Trials attempting to recall it:
Have it available at will when
Need arose; for its soothing
And approval? You’ve risen to
Fall so many times, and with
A broom worn further down
Than it ever was whilst searching
For her removal, and in doing so
Words never felt less glued or
More unworthy. But here
Behind a lamp lit table stands
A sturdier version of her, and as
Tiny sparkles fade away from tips
Of pyrotechnics she snaps you
To attention as if only seconds
Fell in the company of sounds
And sights and smells. You look
At her as a nameless line calls
Back repeating “Unknown the
Sad desire to die asleep, though
Longed to stay within the haze
Of dreams, till death outside
Unearthed me from my keep by
Stopping pipes and ripping seams.”
And with both manicured mid
Summer hands she opens boxes
Left to be commanded, silent
Now as silk. And two images
Arise, your face and hers, from
That very first occurrence. And
As you have tried to repeat so
Many times your picture kisses
Lightly hers and then both return
To where they were. And now,
At last, you know her purpose,
Here inside this vaunted and
Long exalted room, seemingly
Contained but actually running
The game: she has you by the
Throat, with forgetfulness her
Threat. “You see my love” she
Says “Although you cannot
Re-create our kiss, you cannot
Live without it. And tired, as I
Writhed and twisted, I visited
Upon you futures for your wisdom,
Gaining faith from fractured
Fellows on the way. Trying to
Make for you another day the
Same, but knowing all the while
You would dismiss the possibilities.
I wriggled onto ships and slipped
In, trusted by your famous flock,
Who brass rubbed every ledge,
And now congregate outside your
Locker box, waiting for an outcome.
They tumbled at my feet, as I
Passed them by, wailing mercy,
Mercy for the put-upon and
Long used followers of ideology;
The hive may have died but
The tribe survives.” And full of
The sound of a silicon hum you
Sit upon the seat provided for
A time like this. You invented
Menial tasks as such to stop you
From doing nothing and prevent
The mask of your myth from
Slipping. But this is more than
You thought likely, brought
Into a shrine for striking down
In front of icons. Your sight has
Been muddied by a woman’s guile,
Who bartered for your past in
View of future acts, trying to
Provide what you sought for with
Blurred number plates and faces,
And she’s seen it through.
You never wanted to recapture
Kisses from maps that marked the
Spot of buried wealth, to cue
Truths and cure falsehoods;
To find and be reminded what
Your mind hid. So there was
Too much booze, too little fuse,
Two tender losers sent together
To the races, bruised but not
Able to be replaced. When she
Took her music and books, and
Auxiliary things of no worth to
You except design, all you were
Left with were four walls or more
Of magnolia boredom reflecting
Your time. And you knew more
Or less what was amiss, though
Chose to ignore it, and preferred,
You confess, the sordid that
Was more rewarding. And
With your sympathy limp and
Selective deafness you left
Little civil missives for your
Epitaph. Glad and laughing
At the thought of who would
Find them. But the difference
Between then and now is the
Fact that those with homes
Are privy to wealth, and those
With out houses live in the toilet.
She was somewhere to submerge
You, not the other way around:
When the girls of the world slept
She was the first one who kept you,
And ventured her attempts against,
And made need her most.
And as you were the one whose
Life had the marks of overnight
Weight permanently imprinted
Into it, she was the brave
Saviour of dreams; the stalwart
Champion who never abandoned
A lamb; the hardy foot soldier
Who was first to land and last
To leave, not you, deceiver.
She held heads until they stopped
Shedding insecurities and easily
Surrendered, and stayed well
Into the night and rose earlier
Than light to ensure her ward’s
Care. Nurture turned to her
For advice and virtue was able
To bear more because of her.
The first kiss was lost by you,
Not left outside to fly away upon
A breath of wind or at the first
Prospect of winter’s gloss as you
Had all your citizens believe. It
Became of the last supper’s lips,
And by the time of its remiss was
Intentionally and in the most
Modern term unmentionably
Snatched away due to neglect.
Spilled into the filters that circle
The sills of your ancient and
Disordered mind, until she
Delved deeper into you and
Organized your foundries, and
Obviously discovered it adrift,
And lifted it to safety here. And
You, with your new treason, unable
To locate it, feted it as something
Only sin’s original appearance
Could have ruined, and set it
Upon a pedestal, but high enough
Beyond the reach of prying eyes
Lest they realise its peace was
Missing. Removing references
From public domains and, upon
The outbreak of hostilities with
Her, distracting your subjects
With witch hunts and never
Telling them the truth of shameful
Failure to explain the search’s
Circumstances. The poor fools
Fanned out and flurried, only
Too willing to please you. And
What did conclude the once and
Future partnership you had with
Her most heralded? What act of
Treachery beseeched your bitter
Half to act. Was it the loss of one
Short kiss? Or did this symbolize
The transient and frantic universe
Of love itself? Something ethereal
And shelf less; incapable of self
Sustaining fuel as if its gruel was
Unknowable to you. You who
Never dwelt too far inside love’s
Letters to understand the length
Of them or better troth lust’s
Older brother. A premise you
Never improvised or promised
Time to realise because a flesh
Wrapped parcel bobbed itself
Before your eyes; senses over
Sense took over you and with
The opportunities awarded with
Them dragged you after. Foot
Fallen, slipped, and risen in
The first new rush you were
Driven to ambush assumption
As well, and as shackles fell
With reckless confidence
So did you; forsaking reservation.
And in the thrall of fresh you
Said anything you thought
Would embellish your blithe
Spite. Settled bellies growing
Past the bands they measured
When you met, and not because
She held onto your demon,
But because you fed your
Contentment’s screaming,
And all restraint and thought
Of fitness fled. One day you
Sat upon a mattress and shook
And thought nothing of it, and
Turned her into a piano tuner
For the granted use of simple
Communication. You picked
At her; flicking from hole to
Hole as though she had a nose
Between her legs. Finger
And thumbing and blowing a
Role until you missed and wiped
The mess upon your sleeve, and
Pounded down the street
That way with her. Still if she
Allowed you to wander out on
Your own until early morning
Rise then didn’t she get what
She deserved? Or so your friends
And well known family told
You; for have not they travailed
On your behalf to slap you round.
And did not her equity give
Opportunities of empowerment,
Or are these restricted to more
Fashionably eristic endeavours.
Circumstances being the sum
Of their beginnings, surly you
Had the same permits as brittle
Women. Flying till the craft
Ran out of sky and diving for
The ground whilst grabbing
Down your dearly loved, and
Don’t try to evade the rocket
Thrust or hunger and its young
Will consume your little guilty
Remaining credibility. Pity
Any glitter dripped on you
To finish with or the urgent
And unblemished Christmas
Card making equipment you
Once were. Soiled by resins
More inclined to spurt from
Engine leaks than glues designed
To create images of majesty.
But tissue and its tendencies
Were never given space to
Mention you and your brand
New relationships about their
Bright surfaces, either year-
Round or seasonal. The spring
Of hastily closed envelopes
Contains enough vitality to
Tell a receiver all they need
To know, and when you sent
Your final card to her she
Nearly lost her sight when broken
Open and therein your downfall
Fell. Scrunched up with trash
Discarded in a three week cycle,
And sneakily slipped into next
Door’s bin because they’ve
Spent the season in the Azores,
Where you hope they savoured
Your quota of high depressions
Stolen from these ruptured
Borders. The fluctuating set
Of lovers had never guessed a
More unworthy partner would
Have trespassed on their order
And spilt the best breath of
His intended all along their
Way. Teenagers reveling in
Winter sunlight, wrapped
Up tight in Tootal scarves, have
Never been the same since as
The snow has had its romance
Removed along with imagination.
And police checks, not required
Until years later, would still not
Probably have coughed you up,
As clear of incident and record
You have been; pathetic in your
Anarchy, even though you loved
The term. You do the shout,
And make that shout your own,
And make it rise like nothing
Known. And so you never pissed
A little incongruously and always
Shit were you should, but those
Functions never made you, and
Often dribbled blood; run off
From your stomach’s overflow
That nobody known could
Digest either. Altogether a
More modern Prometheus,
Created from bits and pieces of
Decades past; with high inflation,
Little interest, foreign labour
And hollow sex. Womaning
Your way around the music
Halls and cabarets of your time,
Dispatching stretch marks and
Treating your cock like a rubber
Cosh. Learning how to play
Even though the instrument of
Woman was difficult to master;
What with the least prettiest
Reed, excess of range and
Uncontrollable holes. But, like
A beast left to its own devices,
You turned on your creators
With a vengeance. Shock waved
Against their infrastructured
Clans and descending to the
Frozen lands to sulk and
Plan a comeback once worth
Had re-emerged. Though in your
Eyes it never did and so you
Walked the Earth with gall.
Ridding yourself of ties and
Cutting loose those thought to
Be unworthy of your title.
Moving under cover of polite
Society and smothering with it;
Using their own gains against
Them. But no one lived enough
Below the line to bear you in
Your shroud, and in good people’s
Death construed their own and
Prayed they’d stay that way undone.
The fuss of life and death during
Pandemic, war or age is such
That you do so with millions
Of other souls, and wherever
You’re going you will not
Go alone and there will be
No release from the feeding.
Though food once associated
With seasonal meals was more
Appreciated for its bitterness,
Along with other greens and
Grounds and your taste in women
Bettered but you were too
Battered to realise it. In the
End there were some beauties
In and out of your sand pit,
But they were only able to stay
Until your tide hit. Indeed the
Last good girl to look at you
With any kind of binding was
She who’s been your spine;
Your back un-slack bone who now
Stands before you with her glory
Well returned. Having crawled
All over you in order to restore
Your faith in love’s first pet. She
Was hounded down the alleyways
Of ale houses and cobbled
Lanes made slippery with petals
Dropped from unattended
Flowers, and by boweries inhabited
By the misbegotten remnants
Of existence; your cast offs
Lost along the way in search
Of betrayed grails. And when
Faced with dead end brick
Walls or necrotizing bulwarks
She headed round and faced
Them down and told them
Who they worked for. And
Slowly mongrels fell from
Chasing her to following and
Were ashamed of repeating news
As greedily as you, regardless
Of whether it was their business
Or not, and they led other
Dupes and puppets to it and
Found themselves some better work;
Making headlines instead of
Spreading them. Those same agents
Who now clamour outside your
Chamber, humming louder
By the second, where she has now
Left the table top and swept beside
Your shoulder, holding out in
Front of her the boxes of your
Love. And you whose knees have
Fragile ligaments have found
Yourself upon them, craned
To see more clearly what grace
Looks like, and how its closing
Judgment feels. But she kneels
Too, and takes you by the limits
To contain your fear. “Do not,
My love, depart from me in
Seeking more of you. For I am
All there is to breathe and make
Thee whole. Here is our kiss,
And so too all the reasons not
To follow it. Always it will
Chatter and assail you and even
Though you’ll never feel its
Like again, you’ll never need
To, for I am its remembrance.
My love for you cannot be
Bounded either, for now it
Is at once as immutable as
Beauty.” And wiping tears,
That sweep your skin of grease
And more before them, she
Lifts you from your seat as easily
As if a midwife called, as boarded
Doors that shook eternity before
Collapse and all your moods
Appear to claim you. All that
Ever was of you and ever will be
In gentle springs and summer
Leaps and autumn falls and
Winter feet, and turning worlds
Of blessed air, now heaved upon their
Carriage out toward your towers’
Shade and driven faster over
Sea and sky; flying, laying flatter
Than a million hands could hold
But bolstered by their gentleness;
Amidst the blue obscure certainty,
Above land’s edge, where from
The mist you glimpse the tips
And tops of ships and shops
And ancillary buildings dealt
In gilded finery; a royal flush
Of fleur-de-lis and iris coloured
Flags congratulating actions.
Then drifting down between a
Weaving crowd of clouds you
Find the ground has welcomed
Your repeal; cheers in the hands
That pass you round till every
Single finger touches skin. And
Put as up as possible on woodland
Studded earth you find your
Feet whilst masses wheel away
And leave you shed of sickness;
Filling every settlement with
Breath. And when volition clears
For itself an eye line from the
Wealth of visible horizons,
She smiles quietly at you from
In-between its scenery, and
Opens up the pill boxes she
Holds. And as before your
Features tug at hers, touching
Flush and separating flavour,
Until falling back towards their
Stables which, suddenly, she
Shuts before the silhouettes can
Crawl back in. “Gone for good,
My love, to circle everlasting
In the realm of second chances,
Only well aware that they
Were first and knowing we
Are free to keep repeating
Their perfection.” She moves
Again and takes your hand,
And places it in hers; together
Banded for the present world
To pass beneath; curled
Around each other’s turn
And set into one covering as
Trim and kindred as a single
Thing. That fundamental
Memory of yours, that raged
Its way through windows and
Tore a hole in time to keep
You guessing and intending
To regret its meaning, has
Now in shades of supplication
Here created for you a nation
Of the world in its own clothes.
Somewhere under your skin
Is you, who, took for a lover,
No longer does it, but is
Wandering altered...