The memory animals move now,
As ever, floating out of fog, sprawling unwombed,
The only convincing gods on the horizontal.
Their eyes won't focus on us
No matter how we stare;
They look somewhere else
And leave us.
The moon through the tree
(You see the cliche but)
There, through the bare branches,
Each branch converges on the light.
The moon spirals round like
A spider's web (there's another cliche)
That puzzles the drunken will.
Mother Cat popped hairy heads and bodies on to newspaper
Out from between her hind legs
Ta-da! Another mouse-sized mouser
After the last batch, though
She'd had enough
And refused to (or could not?) suckle.
We watched three starve.
She died years later
Again on newspaper in a box
And stretching out her pain.
The stones around the fire
Us around the stones
And warming toes stuck in
Nails split like cracking nuts
So old and yellowed
Cooling pelts in the dark
And woods and other constellations.
The bones push up,
Green with copper,
Red with iron,
(My bones will be, must be now, brown with tea.)
Risen from the river
Lung cages fill
And jaws scream
And fingertips clutch the sand.
Each day is an opera to me:
Someone walks on and sings
Something I don't understand
To someone who appears to
Understand it all.
Behind the dam
A lake calculated in
Millions of gallons
Contains a river of fish
Each amazed at the wall.
A few boys on skates,
Having carved lines
Across the surface,
Stand on the concrete edge
And look down.
Here is the heart and the blood.
Here is tradition uncrushable.
Here are the pastries fresh and warm.
Here is the shop. Come again.
The monkeys are out tonight
Fresh from the little clearing of grass they fight over
And proud of something won
A howling and ball kicking.
In the Middle Kingdom
Their soles press the ground
When they raise palms to heaven.
The shiver down the spine,
The shake down the nerve tree
To wooden chair and back up to eyes.
Quiet fish, moving eyes first
Through green, through green
And gulping something silver
On the way down
The surface is perfecting smooth
On the Gulf of Mexico
But for the breath of the wind
What to wear for humbuggery:
A seasonal scarf, gaily colored.
A bit of scent for cheek-kissing neck-sniffing uncles and cunt-panted aunts.
Ladies: a bra that sticks tits to the bitches?
Something smelling of stables and dung.
The whiff of honey and alcohol and quim?
Socks to stand in, pants to absorb the sweat,
Something warm to smoke in on porches.
A pocket bottle of something strong to loosen the grin?
"Cunt" carefully embroidered in flowers on the front of your sweater.
"Cock" scrawled in lipstick on the back.
An ornamental lovemate?
An angel made to be thrust wide-eyed on treetops?
Fuck Santa on the carpet.
Beard the beast in its lair.
At night, when she's been out until four
And I've been making tea and reading,
We go out together past the cemetery
Down the road to the gardens
And look up for scheduled disasters.
I show her constellations because I'm me
And she looks up because she's her.
But then we're home.
And she's been out until four.
A tram line out this pub brights blue wet nights. You smelt tear spilt (tin too) particles.