Concern

A plotted life dragged through
seen on the tooth of a smile at those
perhaps-mahogany parties. The canapes
ache boredom; the light fittings
leak taste. I leave
and run through rain streets, receiving
nighthood recently and proud, and cloudy,
while unfocussed eyes shatter those
tidy domestic ambers roadside hung
in celebration – and past which I dash myself;
the passing city

a map as confused as I am,
and the spaghetti of feelings, and thoughts,
and the aching canape I eat
every last day

The guests and I are smalltalking another
tooth of red wine – and once again
I’ve seen myself the foreground character
in a rapidly flawing romantic painting

what am I escaping? I keep
building boredom into
antill truths; chalkboard cadent
resolutions; a comprehensive key
to the ordinance of existence -
the soldier of reason recruited; a keep
already fallen, like so many
snowflaking solutions
with its logic already looted.

Ending Romance Unspoken Between Friends

Nobody would know, but I
let her - somehow - know, that night, and that
killed the sibilence in her eyes.

The whole thing evering as a threefold lie:
in her head; my look; the happy place we sat.
Nobody would know, but I

had hidden in me what it took to make her cry:
that big band love outside the landromat -
that stone killed the neon in her eyes.

We entered; watched in silence dancing trousers die;
and touch the dress she bought, (to match the hat,
which nobody would know) but I

hid that sign; repaired those flies;
stowed the romance waxing fat-
still killed the sibilence in her eyes

and the sense of continuity that implies-
and the sense of romance rollered flat-
it killed the sibilence in her eyes;
and nobody would know,
but I.

I Am A Drumbeat

Day: a get-up; your wind-chime only
says good-morning; breakfast; snacks;
so strange to sleep - not lonely;
I ask - what - if anything - lacks?

Says good-morning; breakfast; snacks;
a day - just the same I know - I lapse:
I ask - what - if anything - lacks?
to go to - to work - to find the legs another fourteen laps;

a day - just the same I know - I lapse:
the doctor cruelly has no name -
to go to - to work; to find the legs another fourteen laps;
done badly - I will not hear from him again -

the doctor cruelly has no name.
Day again: grey socks; first - pale feet -
done badly - I will not hear from him again -
his walls are smeared with light - still dark - concrete;

day again: grey socks; first - pale feet -
I foot the floor - noone watching. Night:
his walls are smeared with light - still dark - concrete;
fight nothing - hard - with nothing set alight;

I foot the floor - noone watching. Night:
I fight what's overheard;
fight nothing - hard - with nothing set alight;
but with endless catfights keepin' me awake - with the birds -

I fight what's overheard;
it's life and such and as such - has no right lines -
but with endless catfights keeping me awake - with the birds -
and with the wind-chime days re-called - I say I'm fine

it's life and such and as such - has no right lines -
so strange to sleep - not lonely;
and with the wind-chime days re-called - I say I'm fine;
day: a get-up; your wind-chime only.

Historicism

A day slow pales into a past day;
dust crawls into the high hall windows.

The scene and I snap; the silence
makes a picture of us. Eyes unborn
eye the outside of things and the light
brown-yellow-grey and straight

brings, excitedly riding its energy,
a past - tricks and fiddles and contingencies,
which lego other pasts, and
this past most of all.

On One Knee

The girl called fierce by martyr friend,
pretty, I think
on: 'fierce' is sharp,
with a curl acidly appropriate
to the world, poured nicely
in the measuring cup of the world.

The word is more seen than read;
is missing signs like a gaptooth;
has friends and does things like
'being pretty', anyway. Do you

think I am too scrutable?
I am appealing to you.

Textbook

It's reguritation pure
and simple it just is,
having been digested in acid brain
of failed forefronteers, (harsh -
not yet successful), and served up
in undergrad meal that is

all seperated like for children don't like
to chew on mixing tastes, not at all like soup,
nor sick, nor not regurgitated in that sense,
at all just softened. I know it's ugly, o
I do, but it's all that I can take.

Over Eight Months, Maybe Ten

Realisation as release; moments locked
together, careful faces pressed by frowns,
showing working - hard -
our plains of understanding changing -

intersecting. The thing of sex is moving, being
drawn to our domain. We
have built it - from its parts, its words,
its thoughts and from its lack of thought.

We can substitute the value X; we
can sexualise middle-aged men, naked jumping
into water; we can dash them open
red on the rocks of our brains,

can take this man still middle-aged, feeling
proudly, his still-young daughter beautiful,
have them enter arm-in-arm half-leering -
how sad - we say - is this okay? We'll
assure each other someday in this
hot and humid country.

Until then we'll dwell on these things, these
body-parts it seems we made,
(emotion is bodily. To rise as romance -
to go down as the rose already decomposed)
and always fearing fecund this creation;
fearing solid triumph, swollen punishment,
or nothing at all.