When nothing sits pretty; all thoughts in disarray
angry clouds alter barometers.
I am a fishcake, plucked from your plastic sea
You hold me remotely and nevertheless I dance for you.
My grieving is baked
in your pretty fairy cakes
and sold for a pound.
Make me a coffee
and I will pretend to smile,
but this is hurting.
Those angels know me,
(we share a chocolate cake)
And, for now, are gone.
Pieces may correlate in various ways.
It is not guaranteed,
nor should we be surprised
when salt runs out without solution.
What is this trickery,
providing multiple possibilities
in a limited time frame?
How many chances before they shut us down?
So legs wrapped round a nice warm belly,
arms entwined or lips pressed near,
expression of a kind intention
might suffice to hold us here.
True strangeity of it:
returning at first light
through a world you vacated
a few hours ago, when it was elderly.
Morning, like the birth of spring,
expects youth and eagerness;
I am the eye of a kaleidoscope:
defiled by tiredness,
exhilarated by freedom,
grateful for the short journey home.
We were together, in a house,
with inopportune windows,
They showed us only our errors,
encapsulated in nuclear snow.
One by one we succumbed
by various means, to it,
some of us simply walked outside.
– Not even a predicament.
Unpleasant though they sometimes are,
dreams are sent with reason,
and once I have figured this,
I’ll surely be empowered.
In the moving gloom we saw
snatches of some lost secret
snagged by a twig. There was
a snapping and a hissing
and the hunting cry of an owl.
Ay ay ay, we should never
have been so deep in that place
where the past is buried in
leaf litter and fleshless lips.
Alas, we were carried by
squirrels in their game of chase.
Dropped in a pokey hole,
we stay still as bones,
and wait for destiny.
Your aproned neighbour is never far from the wall, her jam jar a convenient ear piece. But her ready mouth remains shut against ancient screams as your door makes its ungainly departure from bent hinges.
Your world of perfect safety, easyspeak politics and righteous well-being crash around you as they come, they come. With guns and knives they arrive,
as they always will.
And in that brief moment you wish,
not for your own salvation,
But for the peace of mind, in adversity,
Of having acted in accordance
with morality. Not in compliance,
but more difficult -.dissent.
With truncheons they break your tranquility,
and still protesting unerring loyalty
you are herded, herded into a metal
truck. Here she is, your neighbour, too, apron torn and dirty, still clutching her jam jar,
white fear bubbling at her lips.