Friday, April 23, 2004

Mustikh Ermhneia


Mars is up. I… No cloud. Such – red. I feel so
strange. Cannot tell. No wonder it’s too warm for
this time of year; perhaps oh 40 days no
rain at all. Corm & elder fatten. Yet SHED
is all the bird can see. It arcs a bluesheen,
spirals past maple, magnet fucked, adopts me.
List, quick now, jot lest this imports unforeseen.
Noah’s was first. Then Pyrex basin shard sea.
On TV Dastardly and Muttley sing
"Drop the pigeon, Drop the pigeon." Poltergeist
light bulb more than a pop - a Bloody Hell Thing.
At 4 a.m. the box self-switches on. Christ!
North’some railhead, you’re duty, daughter, sink.
I’m a cunt-need. Fix into its stink.


Blood; fore-get not this nuptial wedding-reel.
Hidden if tasted does become ap’-
parent. ‘N not just all jumbled but with truth appeal.
Fecund in chatter mouths. No quench but pretty where
Turville – “ It’s right past Stonor. No. the Stud.
No, actually, the Pony Club. Balloons
tied to the crossroads sign. There’ll be no flood-
lights down there ‘til the The Hound of Ulster’s on. ”
Feint Accenti, cheap red. “ I asked for white! ”
Teeth. How we may well kill our own children.
Cheers, my dear, (hate look). Cannibal spouse strike.
Spot our kids. Blink to drama group wiccan.
X-ray Monday. Happy families lay siege.
Layered. The world as stage. Agress Oblige.


Foraging. For snot. For tha’in-lay dirt,
where there is (in)finite drivel a snivel bight.
Black too. Scrapied. An under-nail-thing dirt.
Smut on TV. The world as reported requited.
Which box to watch? My back? Slapped, shoulder strapped?
Well travelled tongues forge innuendo grooves.
Windows lit into hearths that break unapt
for little lives – that want to leap from rooves
of mouths.
                          I press my tongue-tip against tstss yours:
Forage again. For memory. For spit.
Spit Spot!! not Mary Poppins but sex curs
es to cum your shirt is off I press my clit I'
m off and away where eyes            look right through
the many and straight ahead may love the            few


Sunday. How it commits to suicide
Saturday. How its church bells take their toll.
Now, how old we feel, how old fears take pride
of place: faces in their owned enfold-
ment. Spent also our tears, so easier
to read than other verses. Versions collide.
Our voices prise glass ceiling’d chamferred errs
and grace(s) – daily bea(s)ts in breasts’ reordered – hides.
But, ah, and that’s a big one. I. Or you. We.
Should be, perhaps, well, somewhere else. The end.
Or near to it. Not stuck/the middle. Standees
with days undealt, unknelt prayers to fend
for themselves. This was what was wrong. A bad start.
Sabbathed. Kiboshed. Each heart confesses chambers.

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