Monthly Archives: March 2019

Pilgrim

I could, of course, still walk the

Pilgrims Way, just up the

hill from me, but I have

lost the will to go on

pilgrimage, or perhaps

hope, that intangible

something to pray for.

 

But then the bushes about me

blossom as always

come what may.

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Formal

Fridayam's Blog

A formal garden, bleak, with

coyly nude statues beneath a

sealed-in sky, your

off-white dress skittering between

bare but budding trees as I

pursued you across

frost-crickled grass and

caught you,

pinned you against the

plinth of a naked urn

which swayed and

grated worryingly like my

skull against my spine as your

hot mouth clamped mine with a

kiss like the

ghost of sunshine.

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Aries

Fridayam's Blog

The best grass in the best fields

–all yours, Ram, in return for

your fleece—which seems

like a bargain until you find your

fleece is golden and

requires your death and

banishment to a star-field where

the grass is piss-poor.

Your fleece, meanwhile, is

dangled before heroes like

Jason, a death-or-glory boy

happy fighting harpies or

cthonic armies in rusty armour

for the honour of wearing your

chafing hide around his

ham-like neck.

And who thought of you, up there

eating burnt air and

eternally knowing what it’s like

to be tupped?

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The Droghte of March

Fridayam's Blog

Chaucer’s dry March starts drizzly,

dark and cold—not Minnesota cold but

cold for Kent, where his pilgrims

ambled to Canterbury, singing, telling

jokes, laughing, farting after a

good lunch, enjoying

each other’s company,

relishing the stories.

My fellow pilgrims tonight were

wrapped in the silence of loud

inaudible music while Kent

whooshed inchoately by—

Ebbsfleet, Gravesend, Strood,

Rochester—all starting my

mind from its blocks but

conversation killers here.

The train paralleled the ancient road,

the taxi left me at my home on it–

the same road, built by Roman soldiers to

expedite invasion, beckoned pelerins.

It was Friday night and there was

revelry aplenty but I didn’t want to join it as

the pilgrim road now leads to a disco where

the stories are drowned in sound.

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Spring

Fridayam's Blog

Spring when it comes will call me

as it always does with

wriggles of desire and self-doubt,

niggling aches of curiosity and

nostalgia, above all with the smells of

time-fused fecundity, like the

rioting vernal clock on the hills above my

boyhood bed overwhelming the

docks’ ship-oil pungency, urging me to

cast off, make steam, dump the charts,

live, love, fuck, explore

foreign soils or the

strange secrets of the

next street.

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Frayed

Frayed Richard Potter

I’m frayed but

unafraid of being

battered by elements

as long as one

strand will bear my

bare footprints

long enough to be

seen before the

high tide comes.

 

(Photo with the kind permission of Richard B. Potter aka The Subtle Penguin on Twitter, and go see his lovely work)

British Summer Time

Fridayam's Blog

Night’s new roster has been agreed and
implemented, though I note
she has yet to respond to the
round-robin email.

Her duties have not changed, so we
anticipate no need for any
upsurge in imposts, overall hours
remaining roughly the same.

P.R. and H.R. should be aware that
scare-stories are circulating of Night being
under-staffed and over-stretched:
firm denial is the line to take.

Point out that, although it is true her
watch correlates with
low patient outcomes,
Night is not a nurse, and that the

demands from the young, ABC1’s and
even poets for Night’s services has
been in steep decline,
year-on-year, for some time.

And can whoever sees her next please
remind her that we in this service see
Night as merely an extension of Day
but with less light.

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A Tree Grows in Manchester

It’s raining again so it must be

Manchester and it’s late and my

tram also so I am

leaning against this tree in

St. Peter’s Square watching

late trams pass, their

cargoes tired (though

that girl is pretty even as

she yawns), when the

tree’s sap seeps through my

sodden shoulder making one

vein of brotherhood, one

lone tree bearing me,

lonesome and needing someone to

lean on, something

alive.

 

Your roots are tight-bound in an

iron grid bespeckled with butts

but you seem to thrive so

perhaps you like all this

noise and bustle, and maybe the

sap from shoulders seeping into your

tough veins, some

symbiosis of the city.

 

My tram hoots up from

Piccadilly, my cold bed calls.

Bud well, buddy, and thanks for

your support.

Canute’s Tsunami

Fridayam's Blog

The sea was the whole world once:

it gave way (tectonically,

unwillingly, agonisingly slowly)

to land’s impatient, turgid thrust

but it has fought a slow and

asymmetric war ever since,

evaporating into the rain that

crumbles Everests into

the rotten stumps of teeth,

swallowing ships,

colluding with the Moon to

heap high tides on low coasts

and using Earth’s writhings to

unleash great waves of

unsowable salt over arable soil.

People are collateral damage in this war,

as irrelevant as cobwebs.

The sea will have back its dominion

and our folly is to think

we can stop it.

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Relief

Fridayam's Blog

Relief flushes through me like a

great sea wave, taking with it

all I had assumed would be there forever,

leaving me washed up way inland

naked and destitute and

strangely safe.

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