I counted thirty seven veins on the left cheek
forty one veins on the right
The nose was a throbbing seminar in the principle of bifurcation
a network, a spaghetti junction of puceness
and the teeth
seemed to overbite and rest somewhere near the chin
like sallow dossers about to jump a bridge
and the hair was definitely dyed
I don't think it was meant to be pink
but there were definite tinges around the temples
and the bouffant blowwave was a Thatcherite tribute
grammar school boy done good in parliament
with the hairstyle of a junior transport minister
and the white shirt washed by Commons staff
and the port stain still present on the gut from the night of the fox hunting vote
a vote to have a vote to have a vote
which he lost
and which didn't please his farming constituency in the surgery the next Tuesday
and I counted ten ports
four double scotches
eight havanas
twenty four and a half mentions of the single currency
eighteen of Sangatte
fifty nine of his dog, Cyril
a good measure of reference to the golf club
and finally one for a cab to Ronnie Scott's
which I saw him enter
it already occupied by a mysterious blonde
"Anyway, apropos The Honourable Smythely Smythe-Smythe, ahem, I'm not conflabbing extraneous matter, so keep this under your goggles, but a certain personage from the Ministry relates that - and this is, you know, ahem - how shall we put this - not for PMQs on Tuesday - that - said Smythe was seen exiting a certain establishment in the Mayfair district at four in the morning in, er, let's say, ah, reassigned gender of dressage...lovely floral print job actually...a right old dolly rocker...agreeable breastages for a chap. Staples from head office wasn't quite sure about the Safeways supermarket bag under the arm... full of clinking stuff...and a carrot...looked like it was a Finsbury Park job...very big....."
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots satin sound across space
echoes of bodies over and over
knowing together the rhythm of the moon
silken hips move in time
oh
slow
one double nebula sway
one pulse
found by chance
on a parabolic mirror
slightly readjusted
sound, mmm
lunar sound
lunaluna
oh feel her gravity
she's moving now
sound and energy colours the vision inside
close my eyes
golden hair across my chest
sapphire eyes glittering
simples of our moon
astrally
forever
in all dimensions
sounding
"Bonnie and Clyde....
Bonnie and Clyde"
Luna’s breathing
Beam-lit reception
Beckons
The dance
Star energy pulsing in
rhythmic recognition
Of lovers
within seemless
motion
The universe enfolded
to her
as his touch.
She curtseys
He bows
In love’s eternal perfection of
The dance
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots He's in lurrrrrrrrrveeeee......
Thank you, truly, my darling Julie.
And so is she. His touch enfolds the universe to her.
'..... Ah! A perfect illustration of the poststructuralist paradox. Does the signifier "Merlot" correspond with the 'truth' of the bottle I polished off last night, or do we hold in our thoughts a different "signified" of bottle-of-Merlot-ness? Perhaps we're dreaming of the same bottle!" -FinsburyParkCarrots
I started this a couple of months ago and I've been thinking I should resurrect it and carry it on...
So, recap...
SCENE: A park bench in a city district in the North East of England. This bench has two occupants: Tam and Nelly. Tam's about five five: he's bony legged. Sandy flyaway hair. He's got brown cords and a grey terylene shirt on. The collars are jumbos. Seventies jobs. He wears heavy rimmed old style National Health glasses. That's right, a domestic reference. National Health. He keeps one spectacle wing attached to the frame with sellotape, but the tape's coming loose and he's always having to lift up his bony hand from his knee to pinch the tape tighter, to keep the glasses balanced on his nose. Nelly's much shorter. Cuts her own white hair. It's very skinned in places, has tails in others. She wears a Rupert the Bear sweater. She has black jeans and flip flops. he's fifty-three, she fifty-nine. In front of them, as they stare into space - each munching on a limp cheese sandwich - two boys, about fourteen, are beating each other with long wooden boards protruding from which are nine inch nails. Both lads are laughing as one swings and misses the other.
NELLY: A String of Pearls, that's what it was. A la da dee da la....
(pause)
TAM: And I said to the sergeant, the bus wasn't going to stop for me. I'm on disability. If I hadn't have rapped out with the stick it would have gone straight past.
NELLY: What?
TAM: The bus! Not another one for two hours. I would have had to walk all way to Brockley Whins with me bad you-know-what. (Pause) Look at them fokkin' kids. He'll have the other one's eye out in a minute. (Shouts at the boys.) Oi! Ya little bastards. I'll tell ye mams, the pair o yees. Shouldn't you be in school anyroad? Don't yoww tell ME ta fokk off, or I'll come over and wallop you one, straight across the 'ead.
(pause)
So, they said, Mr Carr, we're arresting you for criminal damage and being drunk and disorderly. They'd taken fokkin' samples in that cop shop and the devil knows what, and I said have yow not heard of harrassment, 'cos you're harrassin' me...
NELLY: Or was it In The Mood? A la da dee da la... (pause) I'm cold.
TAM: You're always cold.
NELLY: Don't know why we always come here, day after day. Let's go back.
TAM: We cannant go back! Remember? Big George with the pitbull? What you said about his missus, even if it was true and half the estate knows it too? And what ya did? Knockin' the windows through in the flat? And yow knowin' he's a friggin' psychopath?
NELLY: Like you did in the bus? You could've got jail for that!
TAM: But I didn't. They were in the wrong. I was a man with a disability. They should have stopped.
NELLY: You cut that woman with that glass. She was sitting just inside. She was pregnant too. You should have got time for that. I've got time. Fokkin' time being with you. Who'd have thought. Thirty years.
TAM: Rhapsody in Blue.
NELLY: That was it. (Smiles.) A la da da a la da da a la dee dee...
TAM: No, it's a la da da a la de de a la da da...
NELLY: No, it fokkin' ain't!!!! It's a la la da da da la la a de de de...Oi! Yow two little bastards. Stop laughin' at us and get back to knockin' shite out of each other or I'll tell your mams...Don't you dare use that sort of language to a woman, yow foul mouthed little fokkers!!!!
TAM: Yow tell 'em Nell! haw haw!!! I love comin' here!
NELLY: So do I. Another sandwich, love?
TAM: Yes please. Don't drop it on the floor like the last one. I could swear I tasted doghairs off of it....
Malvolio is peering through the bars
of his impromptu dungeon in the yard,
smelling when Sir Topaz lights cigars
and groaning, "Oh my lady has been hard
on me, when all I did was don some socks
of yellow colour, hoping I might woo
her, as her letter said - oh, what cruel shocks
await me now? Pray tell: what will ensue?"
"Oh pitiable fool", Sir Topaz breathes,
softly through the bars, "Olivia
will doubtless free you. I am one who grieves
to see myself complicit in the snare
that led you to your cell, but then you would
proclaim yourself my lady's favourite.
In the hearts of fools it's understood
That favour's graced in kingliness of wit
and lowliness of stance. I am a fool:
Yes, I am Feste, jester, in disguise
dressed as counsel, come to pass you gruel
and wisdom of the holy and the wise.
Fool counsel for a fool." With that, Malvolio
Seethes here, "I shall revenge you, every one."
All the times I read this tale I know
A tragic end survives its comic tone.
that one.......I think I understand......like an undertaker......who's gone out of business
....they're asking me to prove why I should be allowed to stay with my baby in Australia, because I'm mentally ill......and they think I should leave......
Pathos becomes a formula
and you're reduced to a vignette;
the son of a father in Lemnos;
a poppy cut down by a blade;
A bit part in an aristeia
by a hero no-one can prove to have existed,
a possibility of a tale
amid what's left of looted graves.
Algernon Trott discovered a spot
(-Discovered a WHAT?)
Discovered a spot
on his chin, on his dimple
a rubbery pimple
(-Did you say a PIMPLE?)
It's all very simple.
He squashed and he squashed and he squashed and he squashed
(-How much of a squash?)
Until it went 'splosh'
and he rubbed it with ham
and he rubbed it with jam
(-What kind of jam?)
Why,
Pearl Jam
of course
stoooooooooooooooooopid.
The nights of frost are clear.
Andromeda's vast:
The fens writhe piqued in the glow
And will' o' the wisps light the unlit track
down to Bryon's Pool.
February undecided to be winter or spring,
I make up its mind:
I whisper as my words make vapour trails.
I am by the lake's night language.
Here I'll will a world into being.
There's something I've said about river glimmers,
How moonlit reflections, dances,
could drug. But no: I know now I'm learning
the cipher in the stream
is what you write as yourself for tomorrow:
You can turn magic into action:
Take the starlit water, the pleasant roadside ghosts,
and know, now know,
Love's nature is not in hidden pools of indolence.
It is in the writing of codes from the river;
the scripting
of buildings
of oceans.
I've tried hard to play the urgent sage,
Warning minds against complacency.
In my youth I prowled stage after stage
Desperate to fill some vacancy
Behind the eyes of some, to make them see
Just how their thoughts are bought and sold for them.
I played the heroes who in history
Claimed to know man's saving strategem.
But now, when conversations on Iraq
and Bush's hopes of re-election take
life's centre-stage, I find I turn my back
on my long hoped-for audience; I can't fake
Resemblance of some conman of the past
Who claimed to be the great iconoclast.
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots Historical Actor
I've tried hard to play the urgent sage,
Warning minds against complacency.
In my youth I prowled stage after stage
Desperate to fill some vacancy
Behind the eyes of some, to make them see
Just how their thoughts are bought and sold for them.
I played the heroes who in history
Claimed to know man's saving strategem.
But now, when conversations on Iraq
and Bush's hopes of re-election take
life's centre-stage, I find I turn my back
on my long hoped-for audience; I can't fake
Resemblance of some conman of the past
Who claimed to be the great iconoclast.
Oh I love the sudden turn into the present.
It seems like Iraq and Bush's re-election are implied to be mindless subjects to the speaker, which leads me to believe that is why the speaker does not wish to hold the audience he once hoped for.
Liberal Douchebags that Blame Bush for Everything are Useless Pieces of Trash. I Shit on You.
Originally posted by Barroom Hero Oh I love the sudden turn into the present.
It seems like Iraq and Bush's re-election are implied to be mindless subjects to the speaker, which leads me to believe that is why the speaker does not wish to hold the audience he once hoped for.
It could well be read like that, or it occurs to me that the speaker is hearing new political discourses that are vitally relevant to him, and he feels he must stop using certain cliches of revolutionary dissent - which time after time have been proven specious - to engage with history.
Ray sits in the Labour Club
smoking at his filter stub,
chair pulled up too near our table,
Back to us, shirt showing label.
Ray keeps wiggling his ears:
Radar dishes, tuned to cares
of all us punters in the place.
When taking notes, he hides his face
Thinking that we won't cop on!
I whisper low, "Here, listen, Ron,
When he goes to get a beer,
Someone nick his facking chair."
He eats pretty well for a fella
Who goes through life groaning
as if in some perpetual death-climax.
You'd think he'd look like Hammerhead there.
In all that wasteful earnestness,
If he's always at that never-ending
"o" -ing
And to-ing and froing,
Tell me, since he spends all his time in the cafeteria
Knocking over tables and moaning,
Just when does he sneak in the time for recovery,
and what do you give him for dinner?
0
00
000
0000
00000
000000::::::::::::::::::::::$$
$$$$
000000000
00000000000:
000000000000000
Utha peepuls' lurve
Makes yuh wanna shit
So icy prissy frosty likka white nice donut counter concept tit++++++++
Wid an ice skatin' park an a McDonalds+ an' another pit built on just t' make it fit++
mo' likka fineshaped bit
of big fat crap\
zapped fat crap up\
Like an old marshmalla\
of curses made in de parlour\
by de teary onion chattin' widowlady\
wishin' for dah docteedocteedalekmun\
Who givin' her de last morphine\
t' git her will (000000000000)\
she signed over(000000000000)\
in lurrrrve (000000000000000000)\
for de lurrrrve dockta (00000000000)\
iiiiiiiiiiiiii (QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ)\
Fukdat(becausebecausebecausebe
cause
You phukkas )tlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlc)
I's in lurve I's in lurve I is in lurve sweet
lurvelurvelurvelurveforevaani
wonteveachangenowonteveever
change000000000000000000change
The eye strains for shapes,
parameters of line:
do you see the way that tree ends?
Across the flat fens, the eye is moved left to right,
taking in furrowed rolls of ploughed brown earth
and potato yield:
trying to seek contrast with the overarching blue above;
trying to fit every grain apart from grain,
every molecule autonomous.
There is reason, the eye says:
Knowing how things are by where they start and cease.
But the sun blurs the eyes
to see gold in the grooves of black earth
and dark mist low in a mistless sky;
just as the wind sounds space through form
echoing
the call of a tree homed by cubs and mother
the flap and chirp and rustle of a Kingfisher in the brambley brook
and my pulse in my head,
beating the time of my life to all I behold
watching the road ahead
"ascend off into the light" in the present sense
I shall sleep in a dream of bearded eggs
and I shall nod sagely at nice crepiscules
and say today-oh, girl,
I am more in love with my jewel
than any shepherd in love with red light on the downs
and the lo-ing of little ones born in the meadows
I am so in love with my jewel
and I shall awake with my pillow a superhighway to the stars
where her spirit has lain beside me
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots The eye strains for shapes,
parameters of line:
do you see the way that tree ends?
Across the flat fens, the eye is moved left to right,
taking in furrowed rolls of ploughed brown earth
and potato yield:
trying to seek contrast with the overarching blue above;
trying to fit every grain apart from grain,
every molecule autonomous.
There is reason, the eye says:
Knowing how things are by where they start and cease.
But the sun blurs the eyes
to see gold in the grooves of black earth
and dark mist low in a mistless sky;
just as the wind sounds space through form
echoing
the call of a tree homed by cubs and mother
the flap and chirp and rustle of a Kingfisher in the brambley brook
and my pulse in my head,
beating the time of my life to all I behold
watching the road ahead
"ascend off into the light" in the present sense
Comments
echoes of bodies over and over
knowing together the rhythm of the moon
silken hips move in time
oh
slow
one double nebula sway
one pulse
found by chance
on a parabolic mirror
slightly readjusted
sound, mmm
lunar sound
lunaluna
oh feel her gravity
she's moving now
sound and energy colours the vision inside
close my eyes
golden hair across my chest
sapphire eyes glittering
simples of our moon
astrally
forever
in all dimensions
sounding
"Bonnie and Clyde....
Bonnie and Clyde"
forty one veins on the right
The nose was a throbbing seminar in the principle of bifurcation
a network, a spaghetti junction of puceness
and the teeth
seemed to overbite and rest somewhere near the chin
like sallow dossers about to jump a bridge
and the hair was definitely dyed
I don't think it was meant to be pink
but there were definite tinges around the temples
and the bouffant blowwave was a Thatcherite tribute
grammar school boy done good in parliament
with the hairstyle of a junior transport minister
and the white shirt washed by Commons staff
and the port stain still present on the gut from the night of the fox hunting vote
a vote to have a vote to have a vote
which he lost
and which didn't please his farming constituency in the surgery the next Tuesday
and I counted ten ports
four double scotches
eight havanas
twenty four and a half mentions of the single currency
eighteen of Sangatte
fifty nine of his dog, Cyril
a good measure of reference to the golf club
and finally one for a cab to Ronnie Scott's
which I saw him enter
it already occupied by a mysterious blonde
Luna’s breathing
Beam-lit reception
Beckons
The dance
Star energy pulsing in
rhythmic recognition
Of lovers
within seemless
motion
The universe enfolded
to her
as his touch.
She curtseys
He bows
In love’s eternal perfection of
The dance
Thank you, truly, my darling Julie.
And so is she. His touch enfolds the universe to her.
<bats eyes>
So, recap...
SCENE: A park bench in a city district in the North East of England. This bench has two occupants: Tam and Nelly. Tam's about five five: he's bony legged. Sandy flyaway hair. He's got brown cords and a grey terylene shirt on. The collars are jumbos. Seventies jobs. He wears heavy rimmed old style National Health glasses. That's right, a domestic reference. National Health. He keeps one spectacle wing attached to the frame with sellotape, but the tape's coming loose and he's always having to lift up his bony hand from his knee to pinch the tape tighter, to keep the glasses balanced on his nose. Nelly's much shorter. Cuts her own white hair. It's very skinned in places, has tails in others. She wears a Rupert the Bear sweater. She has black jeans and flip flops. he's fifty-three, she fifty-nine. In front of them, as they stare into space - each munching on a limp cheese sandwich - two boys, about fourteen, are beating each other with long wooden boards protruding from which are nine inch nails. Both lads are laughing as one swings and misses the other.
NELLY: A String of Pearls, that's what it was. A la da dee da la....
(pause)
TAM: And I said to the sergeant, the bus wasn't going to stop for me. I'm on disability. If I hadn't have rapped out with the stick it would have gone straight past.
NELLY: What?
TAM: The bus! Not another one for two hours. I would have had to walk all way to Brockley Whins with me bad you-know-what. (Pause) Look at them fokkin' kids. He'll have the other one's eye out in a minute. (Shouts at the boys.) Oi! Ya little bastards. I'll tell ye mams, the pair o yees. Shouldn't you be in school anyroad? Don't yoww tell ME ta fokk off, or I'll come over and wallop you one, straight across the 'ead.
(pause)
So, they said, Mr Carr, we're arresting you for criminal damage and being drunk and disorderly. They'd taken fokkin' samples in that cop shop and the devil knows what, and I said have yow not heard of harrassment, 'cos you're harrassin' me...
NELLY: Or was it In The Mood? A la da dee da la... (pause) I'm cold.
TAM: You're always cold.
NELLY: Don't know why we always come here, day after day. Let's go back.
TAM: We cannant go back! Remember? Big George with the pitbull? What you said about his missus, even if it was true and half the estate knows it too? And what ya did? Knockin' the windows through in the flat? And yow knowin' he's a friggin' psychopath?
NELLY: Like you did in the bus? You could've got jail for that!
TAM: But I didn't. They were in the wrong. I was a man with a disability. They should have stopped.
NELLY: You cut that woman with that glass. She was sitting just inside. She was pregnant too. You should have got time for that. I've got time. Fokkin' time being with you. Who'd have thought. Thirty years.
TAM: Rhapsody in Blue.
NELLY: That was it. (Smiles.) A la da da a la da da a la dee dee...
TAM: No, it's a la da da a la de de a la da da...
NELLY: No, it fokkin' ain't!!!! It's a la la da da da la la a de de de...Oi! Yow two little bastards. Stop laughin' at us and get back to knockin' shite out of each other or I'll tell your mams...Don't you dare use that sort of language to a woman, yow foul mouthed little fokkers!!!!
TAM: Yow tell 'em Nell! haw haw!!! I love comin' here!
NELLY: So do I. Another sandwich, love?
TAM: Yes please. Don't drop it on the floor like the last one. I could swear I tasted doghairs off of it....
NELLY: Get your own bleedin' sandwich.
No, after all, I'll let it lie and get the old wordpad out to write something totally different for tonight...
of his impromptu dungeon in the yard,
smelling when Sir Topaz lights cigars
and groaning, "Oh my lady has been hard
on me, when all I did was don some socks
of yellow colour, hoping I might woo
her, as her letter said - oh, what cruel shocks
await me now? Pray tell: what will ensue?"
"Oh pitiable fool", Sir Topaz breathes,
softly through the bars, "Olivia
will doubtless free you. I am one who grieves
to see myself complicit in the snare
that led you to your cell, but then you would
proclaim yourself my lady's favourite.
In the hearts of fools it's understood
That favour's graced in kingliness of wit
and lowliness of stance. I am a fool:
Yes, I am Feste, jester, in disguise
dressed as counsel, come to pass you gruel
and wisdom of the holy and the wise.
Fool counsel for a fool." With that, Malvolio
Seethes here, "I shall revenge you, every one."
All the times I read this tale I know
A tragic end survives its comic tone.
a cipher
book of the dead
and here and here and here
new deaths
hieroglyphs of fading light
winged away with new birds
but oh, what life
now
to die
at last
in a beautiful dawn
and you're reduced to a vignette;
the son of a father in Lemnos;
a poppy cut down by a blade;
A bit part in an aristeia
by a hero no-one can prove to have existed,
a possibility of a tale
amid what's left of looted graves.
(-Discovered a WHAT?)
Discovered a spot
on his chin, on his dimple
a rubbery pimple
(-Did you say a PIMPLE?)
It's all very simple.
He squashed and he squashed and he squashed and he squashed
(-How much of a squash?)
Until it went 'splosh'
and he rubbed it with ham
and he rubbed it with jam
(-What kind of jam?)
Why,
Pearl Jam
of course
stoooooooooooooooooopid.
Andromeda's vast:
The fens writhe piqued in the glow
And will' o' the wisps light the unlit track
down to Bryon's Pool.
February undecided to be winter or spring,
I make up its mind:
I whisper as my words make vapour trails.
I am by the lake's night language.
Here I'll will a world into being.
There's something I've said about river glimmers,
How moonlit reflections, dances,
could drug. But no: I know now I'm learning
the cipher in the stream
is what you write as yourself for tomorrow:
You can turn magic into action:
Take the starlit water, the pleasant roadside ghosts,
and know, now know,
Love's nature is not in hidden pools of indolence.
It is in the writing of codes from the river;
the scripting
of buildings
of oceans.
I've tried hard to play the urgent sage,
Warning minds against complacency.
In my youth I prowled stage after stage
Desperate to fill some vacancy
Behind the eyes of some, to make them see
Just how their thoughts are bought and sold for them.
I played the heroes who in history
Claimed to know man's saving strategem.
But now, when conversations on Iraq
and Bush's hopes of re-election take
life's centre-stage, I find I turn my back
on my long hoped-for audience; I can't fake
Resemblance of some conman of the past
Who claimed to be the great iconoclast.
Oh I love the sudden turn into the present.
It seems like Iraq and Bush's re-election are implied to be mindless subjects to the speaker, which leads me to believe that is why the speaker does not wish to hold the audience he once hoped for.
It could well be read like that, or it occurs to me that the speaker is hearing new political discourses that are vitally relevant to him, and he feels he must stop using certain cliches of revolutionary dissent - which time after time have been proven specious - to engage with history.
delightful, your grace.... simply ambrosia
(hiya dyao.... if I may.... squiggles?)
which, where I live mostly comes from the left... er.... west
i saw a little green lizard yesterday
he was cute
smoking at his filter stub,
chair pulled up too near our table,
Back to us, shirt showing label.
Ray keeps wiggling his ears:
Radar dishes, tuned to cares
of all us punters in the place.
When taking notes, he hides his face
Thinking that we won't cop on!
I whisper low, "Here, listen, Ron,
When he goes to get a beer,
Someone nick his facking chair."
Ahhhh, ispired by Van "The Man" and a certain Jewelly Jewel, I presume! Excellent!
Who goes through life groaning
as if in some perpetual death-climax.
You'd think he'd look like Hammerhead there.
In all that wasteful earnestness,
If he's always at that never-ending
"o" -ing
And to-ing and froing,
Tell me, since he spends all his time in the cafeteria
Knocking over tables and moaning,
Just when does he sneak in the time for recovery,
and what do you give him for dinner?
00
000
0000
00000
000000::::::::::::::::::::::$$
$$$$
000000000
00000000000:
000000000000000
Utha peepuls' lurve
Makes yuh wanna shit
So icy prissy frosty likka white nice donut counter concept tit++++++++
Wid an ice skatin' park an a McDonalds+ an' another pit built on just t' make it fit++
mo' likka fineshaped bit
of big fat crap\
zapped fat crap up\
Like an old marshmalla\
of curses made in de parlour\
by de teary onion chattin' widowlady\
wishin' for dah docteedocteedalekmun\
Who givin' her de last morphine\
t' git her will (000000000000)\
she signed over(000000000000)\
in lurrrrve (000000000000000000)\
for de lurrrrve dockta (00000000000)\
iiiiiiiiiiiiii (QQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQQ)\
Fukdat(becausebecausebecausebe
cause
You phukkas )tlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlctlc)
I's in lurve I's in lurve I is in lurve sweet
lurvelurvelurvelurveforevaani
wonteveachangenowonteveever
change000000000000000000change
Now git up dum stairs, Dalek
interesting last two here
what's a Dalek?
Hope the link works. This is a Dalek poetry hut on Skaro.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/treasurehunt/gallery/images/800/daleks.html
parameters of line:
do you see the way that tree ends?
Across the flat fens, the eye is moved left to right,
taking in furrowed rolls of ploughed brown earth
and potato yield:
trying to seek contrast with the overarching blue above;
trying to fit every grain apart from grain,
every molecule autonomous.
There is reason, the eye says:
Knowing how things are by where they start and cease.
But the sun blurs the eyes
to see gold in the grooves of black earth
and dark mist low in a mistless sky;
just as the wind sounds space through form
echoing
the call of a tree homed by cubs and mother
the flap and chirp and rustle of a Kingfisher in the brambley brook
and my pulse in my head,
beating the time of my life to all I behold
watching the road ahead
"ascend off into the light" in the present sense
and I shall nod sagely at nice crepiscules
and say today-oh, girl,
I am more in love with my jewel
than any shepherd in love with red light on the downs
and the lo-ing of little ones born in the meadows
I am so in love with my jewel
and I shall awake with my pillow a superhighway to the stars
where her spirit has lain beside me
you are far from autonotromic...
this one is sweet, btw