HINTERLAND


when I'm reclusive, I'll sit at the centre
of my own remote pantheon
which is more ring of salt
than apotheosis

here the impassive coffee mug
of jaundice; there a barren trellis
'gainst the wall, slowly wheezing
in the company
of equidistant ashtrays
whose grooves tell quite a story

and all around there are
the tokens of nostalgia: cuttings
and the like, collecting dust
since their legends were lifted
to memory
while over by the porch
there's something dead
which I'd sooner name than evict

this fixed configuration will replace
the illusion of order so cherished in
the work I'll live to
repudiate: a bid to undress
for the last time
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp and oh, did I mention
the ivy?
you've never met ivy like this

Transition (All Of The Above)


Nobody could want to admit
the sensation of youthfulness
does not blossom for the efforts
of any wild scene
or paganistic fun
but does rather come and go
a fever, ephemeral
until the generation's immune
and the feeling moves on down

and
nobody could want to admit
a forlorn majority have acted
on principle throughout their lives
with little or no reward
and those who make homes
of their pigeonholes
do so not because they are vermin
but because they can

and
nobody could want to admit
the pursuit of pleasure appears
ever more repellent
even morbid
as if the heart of such an existence
is masturbation
in the face of extinction

and
nobody could want to admit
all of the above feels perfectly
natural
like wiping from a screen
the household dust that makes
no issue of its origin

and
nobody could want to admit
their mortality threatens
to uncoil itself
through panic alone

In a squat, glass-fronted building
on the other side of the road,
there hangs an exquisite jaw.

By night I have the pleasure of
watching him sweat into greasy air,
and the alchemy intoxicates:

the lines on the boards go limp
before my eyes, evoking willows
drawn winsome in charcoal.

Wherefore his knowing asides?
Was he insinuated into this? Is he
an agent of the homosexual agenda?

(The heterosexual agenda had better
learn how to use a chisel.) Let us
be thankful for these rare confusions.

In another life, I am staying up late
in anticipation of his return;
I offer breasts and hips to his fatigue,
and touch his cheek.

My tears stain small pine hands;

thin black paint shows the smile's path;

rough-hewn veins run dry maps

to his heart: my little wooden boy's born.

MATERIAL

Should I consider it a bad omen
that I want to see you again soon
because I can't remember your face?
I should, without a doubt

Should you consider it a bad omen
that this cowardly philosopher
another non-stranger whom you'll
probably never engage with
outside of the anecdotes shared
through a typical drug-themed courtship
has actually taken the time to record
his misgivings, and call them poetry?
Should you consider this a bad omen?
Run for your fucking life

The irony of course is that this situation
presents irresistible material
the products of which you'll never read

What are your plans for this evening?

_______________
Rain Over Bouville

Rain Over Bouville - Autumn/Winter