Wake up, as the light trips over her windowsill,
The light breeze that wanders dozily under her door barely disturbs the dust,
That coats her shelves, picture frames,
The pile of unread books beside her bed.
A cup of tea breathes its last warm breath on her table as she dresses,
The radio muttering to itself on the side, the tea cold, her feet cold.
That cold light gazing blankly through her window at her hunched figure,
The cigarette whistling Wagner as she stubs it out on a dish.
Her broom holds it's breath as she sweeps away other peoples evenings,
The box of other peoples failures, discarded.
The stains of other people's accidents.
The stench of other people's carelessness.
An argument, a broken glass. A bucket of decay,
“What is this bucket of decay” she asks.
But there is no answer, no echo.
No reflection of her sadness. The windows just frame the inanely grinning sky.
A paycheck, some apples.
A glass of lager taps a broken rhythm on her cracked lips.
Beside her, old clothes. An old man.
The television bores them with tales of last night's dreams.
Other people's dreams. The love of others.
A dressing gown, stained with tea and age,
Her bed, warm, smiling back at the sky,
Who winks, teasing. Until Friday morning comes.
A death. A dreamless sleep broken only by the screaming of the robins,
Tricked by the streetlights as they mumble,
And dribble down, onto the pavement.
Untrodden, unswept. Asleep for the night.
Friday 10 September 2010
Glamour (a funeral in corn)
We lie, beneath tequila skies,
'neath the sigh of the shifting sands,
Wont you hum, my lover, that melody,
While we dance round, hand in hand?
Oh when, dear friend, will we lie again,
Beneath that sea of green,
And point out wonders, two by two,
And dance to a tambourine?
Oh careless glamour,
Oh glamour's madness,
That old tip-toeing lie.
We drowned her long before the snow,
Joined the shifting sand and sky.
Your box of sounds, long rusted shut,
Hosts a mournful shadow play,
With the whistling embers, dust and soot,
Singing softly in the hay.
Oh dance, dear lover, spread yourself about!
Melt your flesh into the corn,
Before cold lips forget the words to shout,
And wither, dead, forlorn.
As a sunbeam dear, though you're far from here,
As a falling star or stone,
I'll come to you, to your heart and hearth,
To your flesh and hair and bones.
To that place where once, before the snow,
'neath tequila skies we lay.
Where the ember's glamour cast its glow,
And kept us warm within the hay.
'neath the sigh of the shifting sands,
Wont you hum, my lover, that melody,
While we dance round, hand in hand?
Oh when, dear friend, will we lie again,
Beneath that sea of green,
And point out wonders, two by two,
And dance to a tambourine?
Oh careless glamour,
Oh glamour's madness,
That old tip-toeing lie.
We drowned her long before the snow,
Joined the shifting sand and sky.
Your box of sounds, long rusted shut,
Hosts a mournful shadow play,
With the whistling embers, dust and soot,
Singing softly in the hay.
Oh dance, dear lover, spread yourself about!
Melt your flesh into the corn,
Before cold lips forget the words to shout,
And wither, dead, forlorn.
As a sunbeam dear, though you're far from here,
As a falling star or stone,
I'll come to you, to your heart and hearth,
To your flesh and hair and bones.
To that place where once, before the snow,
'neath tequila skies we lay.
Where the ember's glamour cast its glow,
And kept us warm within the hay.
Soil Again
Look far past the trees, my lover, myself,
And pray not to the Loam that dreams lightly,
Throw your hands to the Clay and scream sonnets of wealth,
Or just whisper sweet things in my ear.
For today she arrived, with her handfulls of Sand,
And her feet making Dust in the sky,
She looks East for a change, and describes to the Silt,
Good reasons for saying goodbye.
Did you sing to her, son, with you heart under Stone,
Did you beg for her lips, did you plead for her breasts?
Or did you lie under Loam, where you heart never beats,
And just pray she walks nearer to thee?
Was it West she like best, with the Mud past her chest,
Did she let go of the rope that she threw you?
Or did East call her back, soft and naked and cold,
With a picture of you in her hand?
Does the place where it hurts lie South of you now,
Does your sweat stain the Sand, do you feel for her now?
Did her skin turn to Glass? Was it soft to the touch?
Did she ever ask you for much?
And pray not to the Loam that dreams lightly,
Throw your hands to the Clay and scream sonnets of wealth,
Or just whisper sweet things in my ear.
For today she arrived, with her handfulls of Sand,
And her feet making Dust in the sky,
She looks East for a change, and describes to the Silt,
Good reasons for saying goodbye.
Did you sing to her, son, with you heart under Stone,
Did you beg for her lips, did you plead for her breasts?
Or did you lie under Loam, where you heart never beats,
And just pray she walks nearer to thee?
Was it West she like best, with the Mud past her chest,
Did she let go of the rope that she threw you?
Or did East call her back, soft and naked and cold,
With a picture of you in her hand?
Does the place where it hurts lie South of you now,
Does your sweat stain the Sand, do you feel for her now?
Did her skin turn to Glass? Was it soft to the touch?
Did she ever ask you for much?
Sunday 15 August 2010
Dust and Garbage
A light of sorts. Soft as the dust that glides along the gentle Texas breeze between the crooked slats and onto the bare floor. Outside the sun is already high in the sky (what time is it?) and it seems to me the heat comes right off out the land like corn or bushfire. A wasp buzzing in a spiders web above my head and my head feeling a little dry, like yesterday’s bread still out here on the table (why had I brought it out here?). The land rolls out from under the porch and it’s one of those day’s when you can feel the earth turnin’, or so it seems to me. I reach for the glass by my chair (did she drink from this cup?). The night before seems far away, indistinct like the bushes down the way. Sorta merging together like the bushes. The warmth of her gone now, gone from this house for good. I feel the water on my tongue and see through the glass , distorted as if in one of those mirrors down at the circus, her locket. Strange, she said she never removed it except for bathing and I’d laughed, sort of embarrassed like, and said something like “oh” and turned away.
I’ve never been much of a talker, but I guess you could tell that, me living out here with just the creaking and the dripping and the buzzing for company. It’s nice to have her here.
The flies buzz about the garbage bags, already startin’ to reek in the noon sun (is it noon already?). The wasp has stopped buzzing so I look to see if the spider’s here. It starts again so I sit back down. He’ll be here soon enough, I think. Or not. Sitting down, my foot, bare since the evening, touches something cold. The blade seems to grin at me in the heavy sunlight (what did I bring the saw out here for?). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t shy from manual work, oh no. But I...
My thoughts are interrupted by the smell, clearer now I stand. A haze of scent seeming to paint the land, like that time I kept the rat in my closet and came back and ma said “what’s that smell?”. Turns out I’d forgot about it before we left for Austin. I remember it all smelling and ma saying “oh don’t look at it” and I’d looked away.
I look back to my locket (what’s inside?) I wonder what’s inside. I’m trying to open it but it’s hard. I bite my nails, see, so there’s not that much of them left. (Look, here, you try). Even my fingertips I bite a bit so they get all bloody like they are now, see? I toss it aside in frustration. That damned buzzing (can you still here it?) When will the spider come and take her away? The scratches on my cheeks sting as I wipe the sweat with a scrap of cloth. The lace irritates my wounds and I wince. See how the sweat mixes with the dried blood, sort of swelling like an ink blot?
Is it still buzzing? Or is that the flies? (the countless, senseless flies that swarm around her) is it just my head? I gaze at the patch on the cloth. Blood and sweat, tears all gone. I’d said “don’t cry, you’ll give yourself a headache” but oh how she cried, do you remember? Damn near thought I’d start too if she didn’t can it. I’m like that, see, very sensitive to people’s feelings. Like that rat, I’d see him looking all small and thin and scared and I’d say “I’m here” I’d say “it’s ok, I’m here!”
Buzzing, this damn buzzing. It would be a shame for her to see all this mess. The broken bottle (I’m not normally a messy person you know) the toolbox open (I’m normally pretty tidy, only...) the tools, all shiny and clean across the dusty planks like piano keys. Had I opened it? It seems like last night is distant. No, not distant. Standing behind me so I’ll turn and say “one o’clock” (is it that time already?) and it’s closer, like that game children play. No laughter here now (did I laugh last night, do you remember?)
I go to light my cigarette and open the box of matches and there’s none left. Was that last night? Closer now, do I remember? I’d asked her if she had a lighter, polite like, gentle, but she’d just kept shaking and stayed quiet. Even that silence, thick as a wall, even that was easier than this confounded buzzing. Where’s that useless spider? It’s like the house is some machine, a buzz saw or a drill. Buzzing.
I reach for my shirt from the floor but it’s sticky. Must be a hole in the garbage bags. It happens, you know, if you catch a nail or a bit of rough wood as you carry it out through the porch. Heavy too, more than you’d think.
Then I see it shimmering, like a stream through the dust, shimmering. A single strand of her hair, caught on a splinter no doubt. A single strand and... she’s still here. I know she’s still here as that strand reaches away from me. Probably wants to get away from this terrible buzzing. Where’s that spider?
She’s still here, I know it (why didn’t you tell me, did you know?). I know from the strand of hair which moves away from me. I turn, dazed, frantic. The garbage bags, with their insect entourage, seem to be alive, humming with some hidden life. She’s still here. I grab at a knife (what is that doing here?) and desperately tear at the bag then, dropping it, search inside. I feel her but she is not there (do you see her? I can’t see through this buzzing and the heat). The heat and the sticky rank. They join the buzzing (where is that spider?) and the flies who coat my arms like pudding mix. Like that rash I got that Christmas (do you remember?) in bed for two days right over Christmas day. She is not here. I tear at another bag, (she seems to still be here, you can tell from that shimmering strand) I tear at it with my bloody fingertips. It opens in parts and I feel the dripping on my arms. I go to wipe my face but can’t find the cloth. There it is (why didn’t you pass it? You’re right there) on the table (you should have passed it) on the table by the glass and the bottle and the file (why did I bring that out here? Was that you, did you take it from the toolbox?) and I wipe and I feel her smell on my face (is it pink now?)
Was it hers? I drop it and tear at the ragged, bleeding sacks “where are you?” I cry to her “where are you?” Maybe the spider will come now. Maybe he’s here, the buzzing has gone now (do you still here it?) though my arms are thick with flies. When will he get here and take her away? Has he left us alone here? (leave me now). Has he left us alone with the smell wrapped around (leave me now). I hold her. I hold her to me as the Texan sun stares down at our crumples bodies. “I’m here” I say. “It’s ok, I’m here”.
I’ve never been much of a talker, but I guess you could tell that, me living out here with just the creaking and the dripping and the buzzing for company. It’s nice to have her here.
The flies buzz about the garbage bags, already startin’ to reek in the noon sun (is it noon already?). The wasp has stopped buzzing so I look to see if the spider’s here. It starts again so I sit back down. He’ll be here soon enough, I think. Or not. Sitting down, my foot, bare since the evening, touches something cold. The blade seems to grin at me in the heavy sunlight (what did I bring the saw out here for?). Don’t get me wrong, I don’t shy from manual work, oh no. But I...
My thoughts are interrupted by the smell, clearer now I stand. A haze of scent seeming to paint the land, like that time I kept the rat in my closet and came back and ma said “what’s that smell?”. Turns out I’d forgot about it before we left for Austin. I remember it all smelling and ma saying “oh don’t look at it” and I’d looked away.
I look back to my locket (what’s inside?) I wonder what’s inside. I’m trying to open it but it’s hard. I bite my nails, see, so there’s not that much of them left. (Look, here, you try). Even my fingertips I bite a bit so they get all bloody like they are now, see? I toss it aside in frustration. That damned buzzing (can you still here it?) When will the spider come and take her away? The scratches on my cheeks sting as I wipe the sweat with a scrap of cloth. The lace irritates my wounds and I wince. See how the sweat mixes with the dried blood, sort of swelling like an ink blot?
Is it still buzzing? Or is that the flies? (the countless, senseless flies that swarm around her) is it just my head? I gaze at the patch on the cloth. Blood and sweat, tears all gone. I’d said “don’t cry, you’ll give yourself a headache” but oh how she cried, do you remember? Damn near thought I’d start too if she didn’t can it. I’m like that, see, very sensitive to people’s feelings. Like that rat, I’d see him looking all small and thin and scared and I’d say “I’m here” I’d say “it’s ok, I’m here!”
Buzzing, this damn buzzing. It would be a shame for her to see all this mess. The broken bottle (I’m not normally a messy person you know) the toolbox open (I’m normally pretty tidy, only...) the tools, all shiny and clean across the dusty planks like piano keys. Had I opened it? It seems like last night is distant. No, not distant. Standing behind me so I’ll turn and say “one o’clock” (is it that time already?) and it’s closer, like that game children play. No laughter here now (did I laugh last night, do you remember?)
I go to light my cigarette and open the box of matches and there’s none left. Was that last night? Closer now, do I remember? I’d asked her if she had a lighter, polite like, gentle, but she’d just kept shaking and stayed quiet. Even that silence, thick as a wall, even that was easier than this confounded buzzing. Where’s that useless spider? It’s like the house is some machine, a buzz saw or a drill. Buzzing.
I reach for my shirt from the floor but it’s sticky. Must be a hole in the garbage bags. It happens, you know, if you catch a nail or a bit of rough wood as you carry it out through the porch. Heavy too, more than you’d think.
Then I see it shimmering, like a stream through the dust, shimmering. A single strand of her hair, caught on a splinter no doubt. A single strand and... she’s still here. I know she’s still here as that strand reaches away from me. Probably wants to get away from this terrible buzzing. Where’s that spider?
She’s still here, I know it (why didn’t you tell me, did you know?). I know from the strand of hair which moves away from me. I turn, dazed, frantic. The garbage bags, with their insect entourage, seem to be alive, humming with some hidden life. She’s still here. I grab at a knife (what is that doing here?) and desperately tear at the bag then, dropping it, search inside. I feel her but she is not there (do you see her? I can’t see through this buzzing and the heat). The heat and the sticky rank. They join the buzzing (where is that spider?) and the flies who coat my arms like pudding mix. Like that rash I got that Christmas (do you remember?) in bed for two days right over Christmas day. She is not here. I tear at another bag, (she seems to still be here, you can tell from that shimmering strand) I tear at it with my bloody fingertips. It opens in parts and I feel the dripping on my arms. I go to wipe my face but can’t find the cloth. There it is (why didn’t you pass it? You’re right there) on the table (you should have passed it) on the table by the glass and the bottle and the file (why did I bring that out here? Was that you, did you take it from the toolbox?) and I wipe and I feel her smell on my face (is it pink now?)
Was it hers? I drop it and tear at the ragged, bleeding sacks “where are you?” I cry to her “where are you?” Maybe the spider will come now. Maybe he’s here, the buzzing has gone now (do you still here it?) though my arms are thick with flies. When will he get here and take her away? Has he left us alone here? (leave me now). Has he left us alone with the smell wrapped around (leave me now). I hold her. I hold her to me as the Texan sun stares down at our crumples bodies. “I’m here” I say. “It’s ok, I’m here”.
Monday 15 March 2010
A Sturdy Enough Place to Stand
Off with his holy head, said Joseph, turning from the balcony, you don't come west if you can help it.
The end of the line, James replied sadly.
Another puff of smoke: fiffs, and then:
Feast of St. John. The skeletal conclusion of tin, wise Joseph muttered, louder.
Pirran's wound all slagged over. Wheal Rose gone wilted.
Our tin of blood. Blood of your rock. Your land of dried blood. And Joseph looked down on the masses diffusing from below, spreading towards the bay.
Nice to see anyhow, a froggy smile croaked over the docks, always busy.
Admit emits. Omit merit.
True, they're hard to hate, James echoed over the rattling masts, give and take.
Trickle of blood through the nose of the wharfside. Gry Maritha groaning through the foamy scum. Past Porthcurno and the bones of Queen Charlotte. Thanks ants. Thants.
One does not wish to bite the hand that feeds.
A wince. Food from my hand. Give and take, “you've some small scab about the nose”. Scratched away. They'll feed us. Joseph looked down and saw that it was good. A flutter of ash from an alebrown finger. A bloom of nosey mist from the actor.
I heard of the body at Red River. Nasty business.
A man from up-country I'm told.
Dismissed. Too hot in the afternoon sun. I must find some shady spot. Hands shaken, burned brown and yellow from sun and smoke. A sad thing, burned hands, thought James, picking a long strand of baccy from his white lips. Softer, he thought, looking east. Away from the chatter of the rattling of the masts. White girls hands and a pan on the stove. Fresh as they come, she'd said, grain for bobbing bird heads. Passed breakfast looking at her hands. Down to scoop then chew, then sniff. Soft girly sniff and a “sorry” and, smiling, back to the eggs. Strange to eat egg on toast when you can see the birdies eating grain. A woman's thing, eggs. Like milk, no doubt. Not for me to question, eggs. Scrambled up with milk and bread.
-Did you burn yourself on the pan? He'd asked.
Little red pain on her fingers. A sad thing indeed. Some painkillers. Turning back west past Davy statue. Is it true he sucked gas from a green silk sack? Gas in a sack then shit on a statue. Not one for Emily's ears. She'd frown, no doubt. But that's our way, really. Pride of the Royal Society, perhaps. Theatres of sodium, the talk of the town. Colder by the statue, better not lean here. Marghas yow sun setting behind Lloyd's, it's Caesar's face dribbling down onto the flagstones. Stone blocking salt from sun. Nothing funny about that really. Left past the chemist. Lost of chemists for a small town, he thought. Sea sickness. Right. Good to smoke here, good but a fast wind and then smoky eye tears. Better keep walking but a good rubitty-dub of the eyes. Left Right Left. Old Paul made blind out fighting the Arabs. Proud thing, but sad. A few in the Turks.
Lend me ten pounds, I'll buy you a drink.
And mother wake me early in the morning.
Not too many, pints to fit pounds. “Lend us a pound” he's asked. A true piece of Penzance. Nicer to sit in the sun. A piece of real history here. Not so many here now, but pints must fit pounds. Not so good outloud.
The end of the line, James replied sadly.
Another puff of smoke: fiffs, and then:
Feast of St. John. The skeletal conclusion of tin, wise Joseph muttered, louder.
Pirran's wound all slagged over. Wheal Rose gone wilted.
Our tin of blood. Blood of your rock. Your land of dried blood. And Joseph looked down on the masses diffusing from below, spreading towards the bay.
Nice to see anyhow, a froggy smile croaked over the docks, always busy.
Admit emits. Omit merit.
True, they're hard to hate, James echoed over the rattling masts, give and take.
Trickle of blood through the nose of the wharfside. Gry Maritha groaning through the foamy scum. Past Porthcurno and the bones of Queen Charlotte. Thanks ants. Thants.
One does not wish to bite the hand that feeds.
A wince. Food from my hand. Give and take, “you've some small scab about the nose”. Scratched away. They'll feed us. Joseph looked down and saw that it was good. A flutter of ash from an alebrown finger. A bloom of nosey mist from the actor.
I heard of the body at Red River. Nasty business.
A man from up-country I'm told.
Dismissed. Too hot in the afternoon sun. I must find some shady spot. Hands shaken, burned brown and yellow from sun and smoke. A sad thing, burned hands, thought James, picking a long strand of baccy from his white lips. Softer, he thought, looking east. Away from the chatter of the rattling of the masts. White girls hands and a pan on the stove. Fresh as they come, she'd said, grain for bobbing bird heads. Passed breakfast looking at her hands. Down to scoop then chew, then sniff. Soft girly sniff and a “sorry” and, smiling, back to the eggs. Strange to eat egg on toast when you can see the birdies eating grain. A woman's thing, eggs. Like milk, no doubt. Not for me to question, eggs. Scrambled up with milk and bread.
-Did you burn yourself on the pan? He'd asked.
Little red pain on her fingers. A sad thing indeed. Some painkillers. Turning back west past Davy statue. Is it true he sucked gas from a green silk sack? Gas in a sack then shit on a statue. Not one for Emily's ears. She'd frown, no doubt. But that's our way, really. Pride of the Royal Society, perhaps. Theatres of sodium, the talk of the town. Colder by the statue, better not lean here. Marghas yow sun setting behind Lloyd's, it's Caesar's face dribbling down onto the flagstones. Stone blocking salt from sun. Nothing funny about that really. Left past the chemist. Lost of chemists for a small town, he thought. Sea sickness. Right. Good to smoke here, good but a fast wind and then smoky eye tears. Better keep walking but a good rubitty-dub of the eyes. Left Right Left. Old Paul made blind out fighting the Arabs. Proud thing, but sad. A few in the Turks.
Lend me ten pounds, I'll buy you a drink.
And mother wake me early in the morning.
Not too many, pints to fit pounds. “Lend us a pound” he's asked. A true piece of Penzance. Nicer to sit in the sun. A piece of real history here. Not so many here now, but pints must fit pounds. Not so good outloud.
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