clut

‘shame to stop

2 steps short

of hell’s exit

( – Alighieri, Dante);

 

hard to turn;

go on; to lie, hear

the pulse between

my ears..burn;

 

apt (is it), bad

luck or.. – what a shit

of a trip i could

drop but for

 

(i confess) my

irrational belief

in..discipline which

is i admit –

 

Still i

scrawl in the garage

(tools, disused, &

who-knows-what, you

can be sure does not,

magical, come-to when you

leave the room);

 

slouch on my best shit-

brown couch, down

night & day.

 

But I’m not as scared

as I once was – of

dogs, bees, the flowers

that conceal them;

and water  (because

when you step on it you go down

and all that is good – faith in man,

football, politics… is

snuffed.

 

When I nearly drowned I thought

of nothing. In the loft however

years later when a live wire

shook my hand and wouldn’t let go,

I thought something more –

like sorrow, but then the fuse snapped

and after that I went to bed and had

the dreams of a child again); strangers,

the otherness-

of..

 

*

 

Distillation of the Self – Note: remember this:

 

my last poem should be like

liquid drops squeezed from the pulp;

 

lean, light like high white

birds in the cold-blue sky

of morning.

 

This is something to aspire to (like – ).

Isn’t it. So pure it

may/be imageless; mere

cuts from the black abstracts

that flap in the dark dark night (like – );

 

maybe soundless too,

extrasensory. might

call it 0 or even less

because nothing will be

except ..;  the bare -..

 

If I could isolate it ex-

tract abstract it from…

I could..

it would be like..

I might split as

the flesh does from the soul,

free at..

 

*

 

Last, i request to be

burnt, buried; dug

up, hung. As willow

light like black silk

, limp on the thorn; i

 

rise like burnt

flakes in the high

wind and live

lightly, never care

 

. which is good, not

morbid, but up

– like burnt

flakes in the wind, which

aspire to..

 

After Christmas I clean the garage up –

in the new year.

 

*

 

Could I dispense with rhythm as well?

Verse? Forget myself

 

*

 

in the garden, snap

the twigs,

for instance, tending the vines;

 

but all that’s left is

but sap as, composed,

I recollect. Some sticks, is

unsaid & that’s fine

no-one ever knows

what goes

on because

if you saw my dreams

you’d have me guillotined

like bob dylan,

but even he would be spared –

here, in America  –

now, yet..

 

We’re self-assured like we were

in ’76 which was

(we knew not) the end.

 

Some were astute enough to smell the decadence

and kicked the door in.

 

*

 

It’s happening again. Come

friendly bombs:

 

do the old boot boys in –

in Surbiton, Hamilton

– tending the flowers

in the garden. The grapes

shall be late this year.

 

No, hit those guys, who got drunk

& caused trouble down this street –

students; now in summer suits:

bloody lawyers & accountants –

get them!

 

Come,

Islamist,

Big Business.

Trumpist, blow yr big… horn,

come                                                     (Freedom/no Taxes/ no Government

(: Yawn))

over us.

 

*

 

I have 24 years left to live.

Woof-Woof.

 

Dec ’16

Please follow and like us:
0

Leave a Reply