10. Simians, Babies, Emissions & Closures
A great world, masterful,
postcard memories, cyclone warnings,
or genuinely warming
this wet world
of holographic dramas, equal
carbon, missions, Maunder minimums,
Africa, waiting to be restored,
Napoleon on through the English lords
in this great cauldron of the sea-nest world,
in the game of thrones, in the maps redrawn,
the sacking of the pyramids, kittens in the creek,
the President speaks, the Pope goes next,
the Mullah and the Viking and the Pop Star meet.
The curtain goes down. The curtain goes up.
The villain’s swapped roles with the clown.
And the people come home, and every so often
the furniture is changed, and the room takes on
a universal plan. The grass browns out,
the grass goes green,
the moon fades slowly from the scene.
Stars pass over, the word goes out
on the extra litter you didn’t expect;
the prince trips over, towers come down.
Towers go up, the hammer is dropped,
the builder takes another from his birthday belt.
The prize fighter shakes, he stammers and feints,
the crowd stands up, to whistle and clap;
the jockey is thrown from the steep hill chase,
the dogs veer left, the dogs veer right,
the fox runs into the underground night.
An old nun dies, rubbish and lies,
a boy grows up, his one sweet heart,
his car full of friends, tunnelling worms
making love with themselves, the beautiful
movement of snakes, big eights
under bonnets with the airbrush work,
a little bit demonic. In trouble
in resistence the princess jerks
on the operating table; the Press
release, the Press hold back, more fuel
is poured on the fire of the fable,
as the wreaths,rotting at the castle gates,
indicate only her kismet dates…
How strange, you knew, as the cameras rolled,
the ape would take the baby from the platform fall.
Or how about this? Math is back-engineering.
One (1) is anything chasing its tail.
Zero’s the one thing catching itself.
All numbers are fractions.
11 Sugared Milk
Yellow roses in the fog, it’s happened,
the ape holds the baby as Staff descend
with a cocked dart gun, their customary
strength; to live, one life, and let go.
Of the good world. The great life,
counting on something else
with cradles and graves, musicians
and spiders, and other frequency
with black and leathery hands,
moist reflective eyes.
One hard birth
on this good world
without going anywhere.
The Willows weep
and children weep
as the storekeeper sweeps
their empty cones, the sugared milk
melting on the Star-named stones.
Who would we, groan and smile,
lying with a smile…
Not for all the ill funds in
the Neutral Bankers’ Till,
would we give up, the losing smile,
in plain words, thank you,
cluttered with an ancient misadventure.