politics live is killing me
in these nights of different fallings
we need different words
if there are no appropriate
then we need to make them up
scalpel words that will cut out their black hearts
words to change screams into smiles
hard death into the soft death
everyone into everyone
me into you into me
us is that word
poetry at an exhibition of paintings
paintings at an exhibition of poetry
the words
lost
in the paintings
lost
in the words
becoming
lost
in their becoming
dawn is glowing at the forecast of rain
dawn is glowing at the forecast of rain
a rare pearl brought up from a deep night
catching the light of the sun on ten thousand mornings
such as this set here before this one poet who
like the many poets who have written for none
had been there before they also wrote
dawn is glowing at the forecast of rain
anon anon
great capture
a photographer
having ‘captured’ one image
searches for another
the bird
in the cage
has a locked door
the viewers
on their high perches
shit on the glossy magazines
feed them millet
and they shit more and more
i have a picture of it
it’s a great capture
who poet who
if i don’t know where the poem is going
then who is writing it
how do i know when it is finished
and yet
after it is finished
i seem to know both
the breath comes from somewhere
behind the eyes
a reservoir with an overspill
a light flickering
on and off on and off
and so it goes on and on
your poem
like rich scenes
whizzing past the train window
the destination screen changing like the wind
that makes and then blows away my tears
the end of your poem but a beginning
again you have said it again
i am running behind you
calling out wait wait
but no
poultice
thinking
IT IS TIME
to write
they have their big swords
i have only these small words
blood is not indelible
hang enough words on the barbed wire and it will fail
the surgeon said ‘where there is pus let it out’
SCALPEL PLEASE
forever was the day before
the day before he died
i met him in M&S
‘one day at a time’ he mon o toned
i said something vacuous
cannot remember what
it was by the fruit section
i remember that much
to everything its season
that sort of vacuous
oh Lyn bach
i do miss your recollections
the past you populated with characters
as rich as the breeze in your gower trees
long bent on the houses you had built
the lives you had led
the reminiscences of a smile
your ‘say that again’
no longer in your quizzical chair
by the grandfather clock
it’s tock
slow tock
is tocking still
empty in the agony of my turning
