Monthly Archives: December 2018

A Dead Lover

Fridayam's Blog

Death came on to you as abruptly as
you came on to me in that
club, with Christmas coming.

I didn’t perform well–sorry. Too much
alcohol, and I was probably
star-struck, as

scruffy little Runners are not often
chased down in clubs by
leading ladies, but you were

young and alive and
perpetually horny, and I
really don’t mind that I was just

another notch on your bedpost because
however brief, my notch is
deeper to me than Death’s.

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Motes

Fridayam's Blog

The shaft of late afternoon sun

cut her body aslant from

shoulder to hip, picking out the

faint albino hairs, the riot of

priapic milk-glands about her

tumescent nipple, the shadowed

underhang of her breast, the

heave of her stomach after such

unaccustomed exercise, the

drops of sweat trickling to her navel

and the dark hair below now

bright as a bush full of raindrops.

 

As I lay back her hand sought me,

hoping for more, and the sun

caught the motes—some no doubt

her skin, some mine—slowly

settling through slashed air

to make one flesh.

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Yes and No

Fridayam's Blog

Jane said no, but then we were

so young, though she taught me

how to kiss; and Viv said no,

sadly, as she was experienced

beyond her years; then Rita said yes

but we were never really alone;

another Jane said yes, but

didn’t mean it, never let me get beyond her

beautiful breasts; and the boyish

Canadian girl said yes, but

wanted her boyfriend involved and I got

cold feet, stupidly; but then

Sarah said yes and suddenly

yes was in fashion, “yes I will Yes” ,

everyone glanding the

Molly Bloom on all our bookshelves.

 

There might have been more yeses

had I been able to read the

maybe in women’s eyes, but you

unexpectedly said yes, and yes

suddenly became the most

complicated, portentous,

mysterious word in the Universe,

much more troublesome than no.

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Robins

Fridayam's Blog

A fluster of feathers resolves into robin

cocking its head, curious,

emitting a rare

convoluted trill that

summons another fluster, just

feet apart on the fence,

tilting its head to sing a

silent orgasm of air.

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Up the Downs

Fridayam's Blog

In England, what is up is Down

–land that is, hills of chalk that

snake across the South and West in

great green cumuli come to ground,

quintillions of cretaceous creatures

compressed and billowed

in a deep blanket over

dark dinosaur bones,

ripples of the great crash of

Africa into Europe,

aftershocks of Alps and Apennines but

big to us and sacred,

enfolding first temples,

holy hills and megaliths,

dead monuments to those

who live here still

like me, driving through winter gale

with leaves aping absent birds,

driven rain leeching through dead mouths

to the distant Channel.

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Branch Lines

Fridayam's Blog

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.

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The Anti-Beatitudes

Fridayam's Blog

Curséd are the nice, the ones who

don’t get in your way, who

open doors and don’t expect a

thankyou.

Curséd are the small of voice, the ones who

don’t dart up their hands, or butt in, who

see a space but don’t see themselves

inside it.

Curséd are the generous, those who

don’t take credit but give it and get

nothing in return but

forgetfulness.

Curséd are the myrmidons, the

hard workers, the al-desko set:

someone else enjoyed their

lunchtime.

Curséd are those with talent but no balls

watching those with balls but

no talent rise effortlessly

above them.

Curséd are those whose work gets farther away

as the roads get rammed earlier and

later until jam going meets jam

coming back.

Curséd are the worriers who

churn in their hearts’ syrupy valves

the clogging cares

of others.

Curséd are the Mothers and Fathers,

each feeling the other neglectful…

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Bled

Fridayam's Blog

I bled from

red sandstone to

chalk white via

schist, limestone, slate,

London Clay, the great

batholith of granite welling from

Earth’s heart, to the

flint inside the chalk

knapped shard-hard.

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