Monthly Archives: December 2014

We Should Be Told!

Ranters obsess about The Truth, as though that

slippery eel was catchable in time, Times,

New Roman, San Serif, the

Vulgate of Bible, the gothic of

“Das Kapital”, the crabbed scrawl of

quavers and crotchets clawing the air trying to

grasp it, amidst smears of colour on

cave wall, paper, canvas, dodging

chips of marble, wreakage of

fired clay, shattered vases, graffiti,

pixels flying through my night yelling

“We Should Be Told!”—yes,

quite! But what,

exactly?

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The Fought

It’s the fought that counts, isn’t it?
That I fought bravely with
blunt scissors, sentient paper,
cellotape with no obvious beginning,
tags too small for a
large hand, rectangular objects that
became somehow multi-dimensional, with
two left hands in need of a third.

Nevertheless, within this proferred
abortion of disfigured paper,
tape, tags, scrawl, I hope you will find
something that pleases you,
erases the mess I made and perhaps
provides a proof for String Theory.

Branch Lines

I remember the trip to nowhere,
on the branch line that ran
seemingly aimless into Wales, though
nowhere was a big adventure to
little me, remembering nothing but
going and coming back: perhaps someone
conned a bewitched boy, seeing
at last something of the world.

But the branch lines are long gone,
cauterized like veins in an
excised limb, leaving little
sensation left for boys desperate to
escape dire surroundings,
nowhere now to go but mainlines to the
kind of nowhere where
somewhere seems impossibly far away.

The Doll of Her Future

She dressed the doll of her future in finery, in

shreds of shared futures torn and

tattered only by time not

happenstance, nor by the

drudge of laundry, not

mouthed by moths but

lovingly conserved in the

museum of her past.

Being Without

Being Without image

One has to be without to

appreciate domesticity: to

sense the warmth held in by curtains; the

chill kept at bay; the

comfort of objects;

belongings; how easy it is when

fathoming the book of life to

lose one’s place.

The Flotsam Trail of Memory

I love because I love—

there is no other reason, and

reasoning cannot

undo love, with all its

tethers and tendrils, its

flotsam trail of memory

from faded photograph via

forgotten pleasures to the

cold text with its cursor

blinking in time with my heart

in a dark, emptied house.

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