Thursday, October 11, 2012

Lakey Comess

Customary sounds

scrape copper plates, modest ambitions, favoured colours of darkness.  
Prevailing odours 
distemper familiar relationships, tenuous begrimed beliefs,  quarter hours.  

Identifying marks in sepia tones distinguish walls of temporary refuge.  
We cannot recall that which has long gone without harrowing results (warped concentration, 

dangerous mind-tremors, off-prompt cat calls, crushed landscape.)  

Let's say the presence of others is somewhat disruptive.

What aura, exactly, do you imagine you are projecting?  
Coarse sand appears when tide is out, dry pilings, abandoned slip.  

Only black gulls consistently linger, gliding above, scavenging high in priority,
breeze stiffening wings, awful cry momentarily suspended, paused for effect.

Best intentions fail utterly in desolate isolation, sensory upset, wrecked concept.
We place this in acid bath, brush bubbles with feather.



In a world of small or significant occurrences,

it doesn't do to tinker with better stories.  
In one,  dangerous dogs (and their  dangerous owners) prowl the park,
looking for those not wise enough to avoid confrontation.  

In another, all roads lead to a walk through coniferous forests,
paths to ruins, waterfalls, occasions  for conversation, satisfaction  
at the end of amble, marking map, taking bearings, choosing direction.

This morning's offering was vaguely reminiscent of physicians,
admonished to heal themselves. It's too early for winter, but not too early for chill factor.

Your voice was both well concealed and strident,
meaning the message was cancelled, reduced to nil.


Signatures at a registry

promise to transform lives.  Vows are not what they used to be,
welcoming groom, blessing him.

A special biography guarantees dread, disembodied mouth,
shame, harsh reminiscence sucking at senses.

Where are the Maccabees grouping amongst the traitors?
September carries its own recollections, now turning colour, falling likes leaves.  

We repeat welcome.  Welcome to the dazed, handsome groom,
his bride covered in berries, in blossoms.



The scent of candles is refreshing,

delicious, but they suck all the oxygen out of the air.  If I am here,
you must be listening;  after all, this is an important anniversary,  plucked out of thin 

reminiscence, stripped of adornment, seediness, violent distrustful atmosphere.  

Don't take it to heart, though you correctly state that we hurt one another.  

This time the damage knew no limitation.  Pardon the claustrophobic  environment.  
Glass walls bring forests so much closer.

Due diligence reaches back in time to savour a moment of joy.  
We certainly had an indication, no more than a taste.  

Surround yourself with the most beautiful out of doors imaginable,
scent of resin, fallen apples, intoxicating.

Totally unfounded accusations.  You're on the radar, perched on edge of genuine terror.  
The party lasted the weekend in leftover cake.  Blink and you miss an old friendship in wake
of something akin to assault.  What else could you call it?

Senses are involved, useless parachutes, nothing to calm us down.  
One thing may very well have nothing to do with another thing.

You waste valuable time, seemingly enjoying good health.  
Of course we're bound to return to the place where it began.  No longer there.  

Localities such as these are seldom as you left them.  Landscape has changed.  
The city is not the place to explore this.  This time walk over the undergrowth.  

It flattens, cushions foot steps.  Heel crushes pine seed, needles,
releases fragmented reminder.  Freshly created universe.  Your eyes.



The son of your right hand  

stripped off his clothes during the broadcast.
He has done this for emphasis, uncostumed body more potent than
cloak of numerous lyrical colours.  Naked as a jay bird.  
As the day you were born, biting at syllables.  

Rising, dance fully exposed.  Spinning bottle just misses.


Meetings are postponed

to become an important motivation to rise, if not shine.  
If we only dance fast enough, women will no longer be assaulted.  

Can this be effected retroactively?  Some of us (fools) have been boogying for years.  

Lucky break plunges into introspection.   Tarzan and Jane are long vanished,
having enjoyed epoch of great attention.  Keep digging for dirt.  

You will find that unlikely but alluring alliance of stretch-fabric soul mates.  
I search for sole mate, checking out likely footwear on strangers.  

Many-sided fetishist, but you wouldn't notice in the guise of haphazard ordinariness.

Remarkable gifts flourish in their own little world, newly wed, radiating youthful ambition,
dazzling appeal covered in red paint, scarlet-carpet premiere.  Compelling.  Authentic.

Hearts are fragile.  Take care.  It's cast in blue glass, wrapped in napkin, crushed underfoot,
rare in this ruthless world.  Which of these tenuous pacts will thrive?  And in what form?

Outside the season is variable.  Early snow is forecast.  
Trees show true colours.  Heron returns by suggestion at nightfall.

Attempts to draw your remoteness are limited to cerebral preoccupation.  
The effort of recall brings further remembrance.  Proximity leads to injury, as you said.  

I don't believe in short term solutions but this length of silence is serious for both of us.  
As far as reasonable punishment goes, this is both cruel and unusual.  

Habitual for you (me), though.  Is that a grudge you are holding?



We travelled further

than anyone could have predicted, planting bulbs,
harvesting algorhythmic spray.  

Time passed a couple of generations.  
Card houses toppled.  Light vacated vessel.   

We visit that era  infrequently, avoid shifting emotional intimacy,
watch flickering nocturnal insects glow in forgotten dark rooms,
count ourselves lucky to move on and forward.

Cynical?  Nah, absolutely delightful.  Your abject sexuality, all my eye.
Aye, a most impressively boastful catalogue of  failures.  I can see your point,
your oratory of shimmering self-indulgence, amidst a generation of mostly frozen pensions.
Where did it all go unlucky, overheated, ranting in the key of frantic.

Do you remember our friend, distributing roses
or apples and honey in the street, to random young women,
to strangers and close companions.  You're still in touch.  
I am careering around marginal episodes.

Not all idealism succeeds.  We stretched borders.  We didn't abolish them.
Photos.  Many of them sullen in the face of elongated mouth.  Showing one's bottom teeth.

Art on the pavement railings.  On tracks.  A lifetime of conversations,
letters sent from within the same city as the recipient.  

Some written under considerable strain of passion, flanked by secrecy,
duplicity in  execution.  Personal address book, used as weapon.  But where was the war?  

Landmarks.  These years are landmarks.  
We meet, part, cut ourselves adrift.  Permanent, the condition of exile.



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