No black and white photograph
Just two of earth’s own.
Score pacts through red clay
Fingertip wavy ink trails
Gathering the prey.
Blood’s sudden distance
In the need for possession
Your disgust haunts me.
Leaves an absence of colour
Still unfastened day.
Fish, bird, skin held taut
Language, tribe, vast stretch of land
Between you and I.
For all the noise
It is bloated indifference
That is most ravenous.
Our horror in realising
The relative closeness
Of its smile wrapped
Around our face
Smothered in silence
This rose garden is an aberration of nature,
So much beauty for one acre,
But there are spaces where we come and go and make repair.
Some people fear revolution,
They forget or never felt the hunger that came before,
Here we remember what blooms when everything’s blunt and bare.
Reaching out from itself it sits square
In the brisk dusk of a bus station
Waiting for a number 44 or a 45.
Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote,
The drochte of March hath perced to the roote,
I’m gonna grab her pussy
Cos she’s a piece of ass.
King Lear dropped by last night.
Brought his whole ensemble out:
Daughters, court, Gloucester’s eyes,
Shakespeare learnt en route,
Out of one kingdom, an evasion,
Straight into this fools’ paradise.
Thud thud thud. Let’s to our prison!
Old man, I see that recognition
In your eyes. What desire! Still?
After all these years? The audience
So nice in its comprehension.
Young flesh is long since dead.
The poetry transcends time and beats
Its cacophonous drum. A soliloquy
Out of the ecstasy of kingdom’s cum.
Earth covered son and blood
Splattered everyone until we knew
It was on our own hands too.
I wonder how many felt your agony?
Exhaustion, shame? I wonder how
Many conspire in the reign
Of those who let a whim determine
Who’s in, who’s out? Who played
which part? Who’s left outside
the theatre again, alone in the rain
It isn’t hidden in bold type
Curious fonts or muted prints
Asking you to examine your soul.
Heigh-ho! Doc cycles to work
Through the jungle and drama
Of DIY and organic palaces
A sugarless plot to hide upon time.
And where’s the magician?
The old romantic? The satirist?
The poet-singer still entreating?
I don’t know how to be seduced
or make the truth bite.
It just gently gnaws.