Monthly Archives: November 2012

Old Blue Notebook

Small, blue and battered—the size of an

unsent postcard, unstuffed from my pocket

whenever some cloud crossed my mind in a

cloudy year.

 

I have to dig carefully, my

trowel teasing meaning from dust:

what on Earth was I doing in

Battersea? Why did I list what

people drank ? Whose is that number? “Call

Myra”? Who was Myra? Was she the one who

whispered “Jeez, you’re not gay!” when I

touched her up in the crowded cab on that

wet New York night or was she the

one I slept with?

 

I was young, confused by women —the

red one I was rejected by; the blonde one for whom I was a

halfway-house to hope; those

New York girls who happily harboured a

hapless Englishman; a silent-movie,

silent movie-star; and, at first in the margins,

you, only coming into sharp focus as

sense returned from sensibility and the

reality of love rubbed out its myth.

Janus

The inhuman groan of

green bronze on

rough Roman concrete is the

Janus-face of love turning slowly from

love to hate.

Pause, O Men!

Pause, O Men, and consider what it means

for a body to shut off its

progenitive purpose, having expended

all those eggs carried from

one womb to another, from

birth to reproductive death, with

hormones fighting one another, sending

contradictory orders to units

cut off or annihilated, the

Command Structure in disarray, and we

transmit into this confusion

increasingly desperate messages that

though our ammunition is

severely depleted, we still want to

resupply them.

A 5th. With No Fireworks

Dates get smeared across the calendar,

red letters that have run and

lost their colour

taking the pleasure of

waiting with them.

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