Sunday, June 3, 2012

Lawrence Upton

The big fire heats his right hand, burning it.
He is prospering to have such fuel, must be,
say many; and more would join if they knew;
the rumours interweave like cold in rooms,

currents of them, each in its own time's line,
mashing the human good he has achieved
and spoiling its desirable consistency –
keep the doors shut, he tells himself, and all.

He touches his throat, tranquil before shadows.
People inform on him. His memory sings.
He will string them along. He will hang them
if he can, fools individuating themselves

with stories about him. And his ribs hurt;
it is the frost. And his anger. He frowns.


strong arms of the lores

howl of a wind and a reign of sky --
something will be triumphant soon --
a hard dark bruise becoming purple
before day’s in doubt, and the night

'll be away far by then; move quickly –
do up your memories; enjoy your coat;
keep your luggage with you at all times;
security guards don’t form concepts

the strong arms of our lores take hold
and break your legs, wrecking your spine
like a small directory shredded –
camouflage your back; cover your head

fear is a bully – the lake of blood
will be remembered for long times


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