Saturday, 5 July 2014

Down below

Red gone to pink carnations upside down from the floor.
Some kid fucking up a car outside. Softening dusk.
Oboes are sadness or curtains for somebody or
Not knowing or a swallowed duck. Dusk almost gone.

Killing the tiny moths and then the dust smudge on palm remorse.
Feast days don't happen any more. Won't taste the paper wafers again.
"I said Hello Duncan three times. Yes. And you didn't answer. No".
Piano's lidded teeth are not chattering.

Bad gift body is something I almost love today.
This and that is so: a woollen bear; the plait demand (she bit
My hand). Peeling heel skin. What am I coming down to?


  1. Killing the tiny moths and then the dust smudge on palm remorse rings very true to a familiar sort of belated and doubtless useless contrition; this in turn seems to issue from some sort of moral heart which regrets being able to bleed only after the fact, even as it blunders on toward the next unintended yet soon to be regretted insufficiently merciful deed. Still don't these inward struggles indicate the presence of a conscience; and if conscience were ever made an ingredient in those paper wafers, along with the thin and empty symbolism, perhaps they wouldn't be such a hard sell with the thoughtful.

    In any case, the wringing-out of the soul is probably never a harmful exercise in the long term, if surely painful in the moment; the sticking to one's guns is always to be admired, even (especially) when they're loaded with nothing more than dust and wind; the final question here remains the sticking point (with my own ultimate bad gift body, I ask it of myself probably nine times a day, without ever getting an answer as thoughtful as this admirably discursive -- and fine -- poem offers).

  2. Thank you, Tom. I suppose that blundering to be the best we can hope for - from time to time tripping over the good along away.

    I do miss the paper wafers. They're infused with memory - a few drops of my own.