Monday 19 January 2009

THE SHATTERED DISC

The shattered disc
Reminiscent of flags of our fathers
The dead in neat little rows
Screaming at the silence
The dusty blade
Forgotten, ignored, but
Somehow worth fighting over
Worth destroying

THE MISSING DAY

Still as Standing Stones
They part
And the tiniest of them emerges
The Mermaid bow, drawing Odysseus on
They follow like children
Or bodyguards
Into the missing day

A PAUSE

Lurch
A breath
Close your eyes.
Simon says.
Women’s black boots disappear through lashes’ shade and then
Patient darknessT
he smell of old fabric lingers with sweaty clothes
The air moves around us in dirty thrusts; dusty, dirty
But air.
A book turns its pages, crinkly
Solid pages, full of words.
Proximity.
A heavy coated arm adjusts
A stray foot gingerly winds its way around the a new position, around the obstacles of closeness
A breath
A sigh
Throats clear, grumbling
My own smell rings around my head and soaks into the walls and the floor
The mechanical voice of the world relieves
Adjustments
Lurch

HOLLOW

And what of death?
That hollow stare from eyes as blue as storm clouds
Whose patience is infinite,
When death is the Absence of existence
His touch cold, but so familiar
Like asphalt beneath car tires,
Beneath helmets Beneath skin
Hollow