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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Rumours of Comets

Fridayam's Blog

The Moon heard the rumours as she stared at the

amusing blue-green bauble that

endlessly revolved in her sky, sending

puny gee-gaws that she barely felt, and the

thought of comets coming excited her

dry crust, still bearing the livid bruises of the

poundings she’d endured in her youth that made her

groan and tremble and ejaculate great

gouts of her soul, times she now missed, playing

seventh fiddle to that great manwhore Sun who

always got all the best action, but she’d been a

player once, a good-time, go-to girl so maybe if she

shone alluringly, she could prove

even as a mature woman that she could still

pull the cosmic best, get what she needed, that

orgasmically wet cosmic seed.

 

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Cenotaph

A final thought on a dignified day

Fridayam's Blog

An empty tomb, without trophies,

grave-goods, food for the dead,

sacrificed servants, horses or their

caparisons, armour or

weapons, fine linens, dried flowers,

images of warriors, scenes of

pomp or nature or love or

lust, naked of

grinning bones or dust,

holding nothing but

immured air.

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The Abcess of Absence

He swore he heard her on the

upper floor, or

at the door, her key

scratching for entry from the

outer dark, or her soft

snores in the night,

turning to his right,

hoping to feel her

spooning warmth to

heal his sores.

Under Cassiopeia

Fridayam's Blog

I dream sometimes of seeing

someone else’s spaceship amongst the

stars above my house, its

tell-tale amniotic burn unequivocal

unlike the odd unflashing jet that

just seems to evaporate into the

overcrowded air, into the

mad world of my Masters,

under the big W, under

Cassiopeia

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Faces over Time

Fridayam's Blog

She gave me birth, he fathered me;

he turned down the Croix de Guerre because his

donkey got one too;

she descends from Joan of Arc’s bad brother;

I held her still bloody from her mother;

he died a few weeks back, and at his

funeral I saw him and her, and

those two bickering;

he’s bigger than me now, but his first school shirt

still sits in my drawer;

she is still as beautiful as when I

caught her then, unaware of a lens.

Us, our children, our parents and theirs,

sisters, brother, nephews, nieces: all adorn our

dark hall, framed against time but still

silently fading.

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¿Qu’es de ti, desconsolada?

Fridayam's Blog

Like dribs of rain on a drab day your

worries leaked through the roof making

puddles in the public rooms that I

couldn’t hide or adequately

explain to those astounded by the

unexpected deliquescence of your

seemingly solid persona.

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The Smouldering Past

Fridayam's Blog

The past smoulders long in the memory,

the savour of its sticky,

woody smoke seeping from

long-forgotten photographs, clothes

neatly folded in attic-buried trunks,

documents—letters, bills, old

school-reports, medical files, certificates

(marriage, birth, achievements or the

lack thereof)—even the scent of

old spices in stove-worn pans.

 

The smoke hangs in the autumn trees

catching the low light, silhouetting the

stubbornness of spiders, every branchlet

webbed, every web freighted with tiny

droplets of dew, each as clear, as

murky as a memory.

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