the art of lying to yourself & getting away with it

fiction about fiction about fiction about fiction about fiction about

fiction about fiction.

arse ache.

 

how long does this go on.

Bullet – 1-5

or 13. The, litany

(if you will) of pithy

observation, self-

parody but,

gentle. you’re cool really because you’re

candid about yr imperfections

& yr, dare-i say-it-forgive-me-please, derangement.

you’ve got to be mad, haven’t you, & sad but we love you,

truly.

 

irony of ironies! double irony.

triple. & so on.

 

humour is good cover for the foolishness you feel,

which you’re not fully conscious of –

the foolishness, i mean.

 

but the crowd laugh with you

so it’s all good.

how to end

I walked across

the water; saw

fish, the depth

 

from the bridge, clear

as the morning slant

of light.

 

I miss

nothing;

understand

 

how it

is, how it

could have

 

been.

This is the way

to fall or fall

 

away. I’m

disengaged & what’s

worse: the

 

circular

motion of

nature

 

or the

road

 

?

A Place To Lie

In these last rows are the people the farmer knew. There is the man he sought to raise a gun. He would pull the double-barrel from its bag and raise and aim in one motion. Before the noise fled across the field the beast was down, folding from the front and eyes up at the darkening sky.

There is the man with the kindly eyes and grey hair he brushed back with open fingers. He sat in an open office and if he sensed trouble he looked down over his glasses. He didn’t drink but he carted jars out in a crate to the men. Here, he said. Help yourself, and they unwound the white caps and flipped off the plastic caps and filled filthy glasses with warm beer and all you could smell was ink and beer in unequal measure.

Over there, beneath a stand-out headstone, is the quiet man who stood aside when the drinking began. That was not his way. He kept to himself and sometimes in his blue-collar work he wore a tie. It was a matter of dignity. His companion is hereabouts. He wore a tie also and the story goes that on the one day he did not, he had to sit in a courtroom in which one was demanded and was asked to leave. All those years, then that.

Now they are joined in a bond of knowing in the far north-east of a cemetery. How odd, now, to see their middle names. How odd: to know the foibles, the lives, the wives, the vices, the houses and the streets but not the name in the middle. They did not plan this place to lie. It is fate and the sexton’s hand that farm neighbours are nearly side by side. Close enough, this side of the pines, to feel the nor-west.

Would you still?

Send me a pocket of oranges picked when the sun was full ripe
and chilled in an ocean of darkness
see if the lillies are budding and was it right to bouquet them?
Did the light play upon the water as the hearse lay my body down
No fruit nor blooms can touch me as I float in my cask
yet the smells would excite my olfactory and I can hear you still
Yes, still and silent.
The pungent lillies not known delight, but appropriate.Still you watch… stay with me, stay the bells that toll farewell…….and believe in love’s flower that blossomed between us for season…. for time….forever….
its seed will rebirth
nutured will bud again.to raise us.

passers-by

risen, the moon

blows, at

last

 

even you

move on or

I do

 

from    you

turn my

face,    from the light.

 

II

 

should  I           –

never have      come,

gone –

 

evenings          in

long

shadows          swallowed

 

whole              my bare

walls                in

turn                 swallow

 

how

long

does

 

this

go

on

 

?

for

Manuscripts

That was it
He gathered his pipe and retired to his cottage
Thought of the money/health wasted on ill repute
And thought how he wasted the other half
He turned his kerosene lamp to ail the dusk
Looked blankly lost at first
But started with an old pad scribbling by hand
The cat had his tongue at that moment
A mouth full of stitches
In to the night, he poured
This marked the code or scripts had begun.

meta

I wanted to

disappear, live

elsewhere; be

some-one.

 

I’m

not.

 

am I really here,

in the empty hours

strolling the streets

after noon when no

life stirs behind

the shutters?

 

on the lawn

under the leaves

pierced by star

light.

 

on the platform

at dusk. the rails

sense the trains

a mile away. the wind

blows scraps; stamps

of boots down the stairs.

this is atmosphere. my

emptiness. the march of

my conquerors – dear,

I’m in a fix – somewhat

fucked but that’s

nothing – not war

or anything but

nerves; white people problems.

which is…existential angst. that’s

what it is. but it’s still

real: it’s no cruise

up the Congo, but it’s not good.

 

*

 

I’m in the car, driving.

the lights on amber.

I’m on my way to school,

or somewhere, fast.

 

I might be high on the balcony,

in my vest at dusk

watching the passengers

step onto the pavement.

 

*

 

I won’t shy from saying you’re beautiful; or say it

with a grin, conscious of being sentimental.

that way is like meta verse because

it’s scared of being, falls

into cynicism, flat; a voice

in your head that says: you’re nothing,

this is nothing, really. so,

 

don’t try.

be ironic. self-deprecating.

life is just to die.

 

well, fuck that.

moon pearl girl

moon pearl girl
for Keikei

at edge
of day
when the sun
is lost to
the four points
of night and
the between winds
of dream
girl you
might have
missed
in the day
that new moon
she grows
into you
a sliver to a
pearl

on evening’s sill
she lets the shadow
ride on her skin
like tongue
to breast
as sky
dimples into
first star
crowning
tui
blackbird
splashing the
air in drops
of bell
at fountain
of their call
pied settle of
evening
wing
her
thigh
astride yours
new moon
to a pearl
she rounds so

i wander
ripe moons
of her body
in touch
her
harnessing
gravity
light in
my head
like a hill
out of
shadow as
you climb into
day
only she
grows so
dusk
tingling
in nerve
silver to
a sea and
sea-blessed
pearl

october 2017
moonbridge

 

 

fragments for a note book

My step dad rang me from Spain, said he wants to live with me & is that alright? do I want him, etc; love him. I said Yes. He’s drunk a bit again & crying but so what – because he’s lonely, misses me. I haven’t seen him in 10 years & we can’t afford the fare, neither of us, & then there’s Immigration. He’s 71 & it’s too late. But anyway,

he won’t come. Partly because he can’t.

 

2

Wednesday. This is the kind of thing I don’t care for. But

 

today’s different.                    I want

it to mean                              the extra-

ordinary,                                 something

else – a date                            to circle

the lakes,                                 you.

 

I don’t need any-thing, but to

feather your hair in

sunlight;

 

flowers

agree,                                      say Yes to the

breeze,

flies, the hum

of humans,

shoes on the path                   2

feet

away.

 

At night, the scent

of gardens, the warm

blast of contact, salt

air.

 

3

I mistook the dew

for stars; the dazzled leaves

beneath the moon.

 

The night is cool to catch

the breath.