Times

 

I
It needs to be
              cinematic
for this to stick,
for the here to arise, draw breath –
take grips. Through eyes,
faulty graphers in low definition,
so little is; exists: meagre outlines
and reflections – smoke signals puffed
by a slow cog machine
for the unfiled records
                       of broken memory.
II
The harshness of used to. Drowning
in some sea-filled region,
one lost
Atlantis a minute: perhaps in bile,
wasted saliva – blood!, perhaps
your tear, my dear, perhaps…
I don’t know yet, I don’t
know where, I haven’t
yet
mapped you
(it takes some time
                   these things).
III
I wish I were
Lorca, who wished
we wished
we could be clouds, I do,
                         and other things
remote. Tell me
you don’t tire
of being solid, bodyful,
of being young, then old,
of being even you.
IV
I shall stop asking why
for it doesn’t pay to think more
than a body ought to, than a brain
can process, yes will, and shall
count my thoughts
and time them – no need
to work extra, my dear:
we all live on minimum wage,
we are all bound by the dark games,
all get the sack when the heart fails.
And there is no union to join,
no embassy to occupy
                    when your gut takes
to rebellion.
V
I see the nights follow
the nights: a day, a day, a day, a
day, and write
ugly repetitions, the way it drugs
you to be sane, and how
soothing madness
can be, and eat and drink and
go to bed,
thinking:
it needs to be
raw and savage.
It needs to sting, it needs to
bite.
If only time could miss a train.
VI
You know
the clouds are
just
an example. They might as well
be stars, mountains, be any
thing (that is: whatever is
not me, nor you).
VII
It isn’t like you to complain,
but you
who work and raise and pay the debts,
say you
don’t care
about the clouds.
VIII
Time will put its own spin on it.
Never erase: pervert.
Twisting the fat out of the roast,
seasoning love with five winters
dry and arid as ten decades.
Time will
wall up the fissure in your brain,
paint over the concrete façade,
                               and then
paint and repaint over the paint.
If I summon you in a year
you will wear a snake in your hair,
your white collar will be bile-stained,
and I’ll never have known
                          your name.

IX
But I, I can never
stop asking why, I can
never
quit playing poker with the Fates,
and look for proofs in the gardens
                    in the houses
                    in the poems
                    on the bright screens the lips the veins,
combing every square inch in vain.

X

It was just signs; you can’t
believe
everything that flickers in red: I know
this date
was the same as that date
and you and I are the same brand.
                                 Yet
you’re as early as I am late, and though
the signs demultiply,
the miracles proliferate
but don’t pollinize your bud-eyes.

I give you ticks on the blackboard,
I cross your face out of the books,

and put them back
down
on the shelf.

 

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This entry was posted in Poetry.

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