Sunday, October 23, 2005

How Compassion Was Not To Be Found in The Hallowed
Retreat but at The Heart's Necessitated Indigence

Scutcheons, uncoursed sneck-rubble cellaret,
the oak desk's apologetic lost badigeonated shim,
whorlings, sparlings, unbestéd, fusty, velvettéd chairlings.
No rite gained in ligneous secrets nor stouter granite
undressed flint pocked bearings, hollyhocked pailings
where starlings stremorate their seedful yearnings.

Neither within the washings of the brittle outer
scrittle quoins which mock their inner post-modern
for-face shined stripped pine uncarpeted floorboard
counterparts or standard Duluxed Off White glossed
wainscotings, woolly ready-rugs and tables' tastefully
refined tenderly defined lace dangly trimmings.

Not for children's helping themselvesings, dogs (even
repenting) undisciplined lollings, beautiful blues
against more blue purply campanulas, greens over-
full stelliformed stitchwort creeping, analemmadded illicium
dripping the end-of-today's finishing greasy rain dregs
drown on pimpernel wedging their fostering narcissi.

All that and the joke pixy prisms at play amongst Trustees
who walk in a showy shown sway, half-full tested to have
to fully appreciate God's way of bringing the light indoors.
More clean than there are hours. Foresworn non-
decay of daily chores, a discipline,
a Rule Made For.

Thermals pecking the drapes' plumb line verticals.
Calls by the unexpected, by phone, by statementing,
by remarkably-like-barking mating squirrels, tight wallropey
tail stalking, who spitefully cheek-puff, therefore logically
ferret away unripe walnuts, pea sheeny and hard
as apostasy.

A politely knocking inquisitor. Sublimation hidden
in guests' mindful admirations. Openness
midden in such depths as foundations must be built
upon for ancient things to stand.
Renowned Persons.

The book about this place which is history being written,
a demarcation marked not inside any visible
margins but derided as the non-permissibles.
I am suddenly broken by eyes more scantles
and personae slate, the saw-toothed veneers,
the flexi-plexi-fixed smile acceptance plugging my true state.

I want to lie without the division-wherewithals and not lie
and prime my dearthest lacks river (Isis) away.
Wash the collapsibles into the horizontals so the home may
cant and dither, whoever owns may give a shroud,
may wrap me in their most abode,
where risk no longer is a category
and arms nothing furniture but those which hold.

Be bold the cumulus stuccos a scurrying demand,
battles a failing dusk but I must fashion a soft
new architecture to fit the existing style: creak out
my freestone vulnerability, my ghost flotsam personality
and quasi-professional jetsam crust who was me.
It is not between plush and gush that I am stuck

but by what gentlefolk a'surd who seek to lose
themselves and the stringent order of an old house
where a carpenter has not been heard entering
the locked gates entitled No Parking (for aeons).

Wood shavings have lain scattered like anaemic gold
flakes, stingy snowed
below and from here
I was not found
having been
found stark

Built of brick and stronger stuff, went peaceless
on my way,
not quite what I could have for-at-face-value sold,
yet enough at least to get me through
a day.

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