lone bird’s lament

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life’s debris, or ‘history’

a reliquary of long-forgotten things:

rag-dolls, ravished (embraced thread-bare),

and other antidotes to childhood fear;

daguerreotypes; unburnished promise rings;

 

baby-grows, outgrown before first wear;

coin-collections, three from being complete

propped by pill-boxes, garish and discrete;

a butterfly-clip which once pinned thinning hair,–

 

each shelf, a shore for many a life’s debris.

these trinkets outlive our dearest memories.

logos

in the beginning

was the word.

 

a mute note:

void; unheard.

 

it ascended the throat

(that choked-up aisle)

 

to the mouth, baptised

in a pulpit of spit and enamel.

 

syllables strained at the pews of the teeth,–

congregating in phrases and aching to speak.

 

the tongue is an altar.

it alters my sermon-song.

 

my words dissolve

before i have begun

 

“Involuntarily, I glanced seaward – and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away”

 – F. Scott Fitzgerald, ‘The Great Gatsby’

 

Across the digital bay

a beacon, small and green,

flashes, and is gone.

 

The current: silent, static,

but for a spare grey tick –

the crest of curious interest

 

not piqued enough to peak

and break the radio-waves.

On Hopper’s ‘Morning Sun’

 

Woman in an urban womb,–

A martyr to the morning sun.

 

Imprisoned; prismatic. A shore

For the brutal brood of shades which teeth outdoors,–

 

A palate, pacifying to milky hues.

 

She’s hostage to the high-rise light,

With thoughts like an Atlantis, unexplored.

 

Outward-glaring, never to gaze behind,–

To swim in the sea-green mirage of her mind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Sylvan Scene to Silver Seas

Airborne swimmer, in flight, she does not cling to herself; she is dispersible, prodigious, stunning, desirous and capable of others, of the other woman that she will be, of the other woman she isn’t, of him, of you.                                                                                                                                                –  Hélène Cixous, The Laugh of the Medusa, p. 260

Oak-dark eyes.

Lips, bitten, blossom forth

Rose-raw.

 

They ache to explore

That dark and dew-sweet place

Where tongues – like vines – embrace.

 

The stirring swell of waves

Which urge to break between her thighs

Come to crest,– collapse in salt-edged tides.