This is history! [part four]

You cannot follow where        
    The idea was to make them see the reigns with their eyes    the 34 percent who say they believe in ghosts 

    He treads the boards,                with his signature ciggy.  

               Go into the woods until the moon is showing         from between the beech trees.
In the clearing you gather yourself like        so many dirty letters stuffed under a mattress

We were always waving the guarantees about, swatting the details away           You cannot
               There is nothing, she said, that you could teach me.  There is that.                    So, everything that once worked didn't after the grand faux pas                                               Try our computational humour                                    a name pinned to the chest,          everyone else keeps quiet. You ask them questions and they say yes or no.
    Hearts are on sleeves this season      x is the new y is the new x
               who would do literally anything for a pocketful of dirty change

This is history! [part two]

Wouldn’t you let me in where the coat gapes

to the clay pit where I found the snapped owl spine, scuppering gentil casuistry

        We're doing magic and scraping away with the teaspoon

until the writing happens to be pristine. Glamour, spittle shined and scattered willfully

                                           the steady head imperfected

                   I don’t want this any more: folded arms a shield; feathery blue veins at the foot.
              I keep writing anyway

                        There is a singing like fly shit spread across the roof of the mouth    gathering at the fingers, tipped

The clay pit gives way to luscious prejudice here.                                 How many historians coughed up the blond hairballs how many ached after knocking one too many off

Let down your hair your hair so that we may tell like wet eyed boys with our treachery wrapped up and bowed: our way through.