Tuesday, 11 October 2011

99 and don't judge the drunk

Sad, but the dog fart lightens the mood. 

Night terrors have had the run of
The house, churning up dust and
Dirt, they leave echoes of
Laughing and chaotic footprints

The dog wakes, she 
Stretches, farts, her face 
Curves like smiling, she
Settles back to sleep

This last night in the old
House, memories, bright
Ghosts, walk through from
Room to room

When we leave these
Visitations of our histories
Are not forgotten, we simply
Will not live amongst them 

The new house, until now, viewed 
By day, the creaks and clanks
Of its night-sounds are 
Intimate revelations

Blandly painted, everywhere
Safe beige, tomorrow
Colour invades, brings some 
Guts to the bone shades

A slumped man in a doorway stirs
He remembers that he should have
Gone home, his trousers are cold
And wet, he hopes its beer

An arm stretched out to follow
The wall, the stumbling drunk man
Can walk, his hands and feet
Know where he lives

He knows he knows where
He is going only none of it
Is recognisable, he pats a dog
Made of brick, shaped like a wall

Gravity organises the sky
The stars flow with it
They pull, they are pulled
In the universal formal dance

Key in the lock, sharp 
Realisation, the drink
Was intended to keep him
From remembrance

A second room reflects
In the window glass
Another lamp made of light
Attracts a phantom moth 

A hand reaches to follow
The wallpaper, the stairs
Are found, then the bed, then
Sleep buffers loss

In the labour ward, chin
Pressed to breastbone
Dignity irrelevant, a tiny
Head is crowning

In the wood burner, doors 
Snapped shut, a rogue flame
Licks out, the log is
A crashed dragons skull

The spider is always
Going underneath things
As though the dark 
Is insufficient subterfuge

From sleep, rising, eyelid 
Flicks open, shuts, into
Sleep descending, rotating
Through the cycle

Eyes roll under cover
Process rapid cryptic 
Jigsaw detail, sift boxes
Of pieces into pictures 

Cat walks her own
Path on the edge of the 
Field, there is one mouse
Hindfoot left on the doormat

Air like glass, brittle
Edged, clear, the temperature
Drops, etches frost
Crosshatched scratches

A wet tangled ball of
Fabric waits behind the 
Door of the washing machine
Bobbles of frost on the line outside

An idea swims into focus
Splits like fertilised cells
Like fractals unfurling, it  
Expands, recurs, connects

A man is crying, delirious
In sleep, his defences
Are howled down, grief
Cuts a gap like an autopsy

Newborn fingers play
Invisible instruments
We hear the music
The immaculate frequency 

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