Wednesday, 28 November 2012

Which side Are You On? [16.]

                  We will never be anybody’s
                only the pulse that heads
                                  to not yet is ours
                        since Dad gave us the Eschaton
                      told us to keep it safe and warm
                  a trembling animal
                                        beneath our coats

                       We’re so very small and tired
                                     just holding hands

Saturday, 24 November 2012

Bus note 29

The roof of the Vihara off Osler Street;
muted gold seen through thin rainfall
looking over some little houses. Ladywood.
        On we go, an array of more
        or less disappointed persons.
Is this a school for virtue or just
a full bus heading toward Five Ways?
        Morning, and not even half awake,
        so let slow thick lids
        close and wait on
        some nothing
        for now.

Wednesday, 21 November 2012

Which Side Are You On? [15.]

not just
the words
we're all in
a mess over
(or even)
say we are
moth dust
thin or as thin
as a shadow is
see through
but not enough
and always about
to leave
the room as
a situation
still but still
lingering here
(all nerves)
the stem
of a glass
we can't afford
to say
out of
our turn

Saturday, 17 November 2012

Bus note 28

First philosophy:
trying to consider the difference between
the right and the useful
        after mopping up large pools of piss
        with blue old-corporation paper towels.
We pass the Rainbow Casino.
Imagine velveteen inside with yellowing leaf hands
shaking on green baize and outside painted lifeless white.
        Nothing more shows up till after my stop.
A little later, the door will close on unhinging evening rain
and I'll be properly done in.
        No serious kind of Cartesian, me;
        blurred person on blue sofa in this room.


Wednesday, 14 November 2012

Which Side Are You On? [14.]

        some thinking was tender

        then the colouring in

        took a vulgar turn

        as you were

        speechless yet again

        at the branch meeting

        all of us in the shit

        but one on top of the other

        your washed still hands blown dry


Saturday, 10 November 2012

Bus note 27

        Look through the windows, fogged up
        - with the breathing? - and smeared,
to a letterbox in clouds with sunbeams
sickly eking through a non-blessing.
        Next to me the man with headphones, comical-sized.
        What seeps sounds for a moment like Archie Shepp
but soon gives way to the ordinary and official.
        An extra yearning to taste snowflakes of grace
        is chasing all good gifts out of the moving box.
In the head: A says, I've lost the Sp'rit of Truth,
and B says, Where did you last have it?
        The sequence is usual today
and you can count this time's robotic pulse very easily.
        Something would have the measure of me, I'm afraid.

Wednesday, 7 November 2012

Which Side Are You On? [13.]

       The gravediggers are at it
                till Love is history.

      The dream ached
            for fresher air but
                    it just doesn't happen.

Cold fingers,

ferreting about.

Some are pointing

way past the tidy trees.

       Everyone will be

            all warm under the soil  
                   when the due date comes.

      And the pages float from the hands:
        ash paper, ash.

                 She asks,
             Was reason ever in revolt?

Saturday, 3 November 2012

Bus note 26

I'm sitting alone on the bus at the stop while
the driver sucks on a ciggie beneath the shelter.
        Outside: a cold that leaves
        the fingers and the face aching.
Stuck in quietness: magical stasis. Wait.
        And then, as the passengers
        step up and on one by one
a writing hand is disenchanted.
Words are placed in lines.
        This is now and we all know
        where we're going to but
don't want to talk about it thank you very much.