Sunday, 11 July 2004

These four walls

Have tales for people.

The thighs and hips and sultry curves

Of my far-fetched fragile recall and the

Curt, hurtful sentences littered

With remnants of forsaken restraint are

Nothing more than a jumbled mass

Of remembrance and prediction.

This is the fog of one looking through

Grated eye and withered synapse.

She sits, framing the room, providing

A preconditioned reproductive urge

To this basic living. I glance upon her side,

Upon her beautiful smooth flank,

The gentle barrier that

Has barred the way

To emotional security.


She hides without saying,

You are too uptight and you are too welcoming

And you are too tolerant of aggression.

A horrific blankness hides any flaming passion

That resides within. This is smokescreen

And the light of estranging youth blinds

Into the future months.

Who is she?

A mis-titled prostitute? A wild cathedral?

An injured spider, presumed dead,

Rising to spin a web,

To catch the falling world?

I need a numerical confirmation, a binary appraisal or something.

I love all that flows.

I ask the question that will

Beyond all reason and doubt

Justify my bruised dignity:

Do you love me?

(I my must be careful with my dignity.

It is my only one, and you don’t

Get replacements these days.)

The deafening nothing of a repeated

And emphasised and repeated


Is sitting in my lungs, squatting. All my roles,

The poet and the painter and the sculptor,

Have begun to shift and very soon

Will begin to drift away

Into hyperextensible ideas,

A lie is a lie is a lie, and all that.

My words are a sure catalyst for fury and I am keeping

One eye on her hyperactivity. I have ducked

Inside that oft-used noun apology

And am wielding it above my head like an axe.

There is no real danger of course because

Acceptance is a strange wedding

Of thinking and doing and being,

Like trying to swallow a pill

Whilst lying on your stomach.

Lying on my stomach, I urge myself,

To try my vocal chords out:

Once you hear the emotion seep down

From your brain into your throat,

I tell myself

You won’t be able to stop.

I look at her across the room, and find that

The mirror into which she looks does not

Hang upon the wall but upon notions of

Reflection and progression

And so I say through cracked lips

And over earnest tongue,

with absolute sincerity and hopeless truth,

I always knew this would happen.

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