The softness of folded letters
And finding some degree of similarity
Is a paradox
On this estate
Part public, part private
Partings of ways and manners
What was once important
Is smoothed over
On common ground
Where we live
Near Lovers Park
The survivor’s delicatessen
Suspended in air
Two balloons scrape our chimney
Lowry’s empty sky
There isn’t a breath
Of wind to keep us here
We run outside
And help fold the sheets
On promised land.
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