A man, unshaven, in a brown Spanish alleyway,
Is stabbing a mattress by the organic bins. With a knife
That flashes like glass in the sun
He is ripping up chunks of cheese-yellow sponge,
Sending them gliding through the warm, still air.
I wonder if it was once his own. I wonder if he knows, or cares,
The eyes of a woman in black are narrowed, trained on him.
A phone is glowing in her hand. The police will be here soon.
He must have made sense once to someone.
Startle me with happiness,
Sneak up behind me with it;
Shock a weakened heart, don’t hesitate.
Tell joy to clap its hands or prick a balloon;
But, for the sake of all that’s holy, prove to me
That something more than darkness surrounds us.
Two long coats – one black, the other grey, styles suited to businessmen and gravediggers; two faces – identical, or near enough, grudging, unsmiling.
A voice resounds; a London voice, deep and executive in tone.
“So…you’ll be fine?”
Two sharp-knuckled hands shake invisibly in the dark. The evening is navy blue and diluted with fog.
“Nothing can touch us now.”
And with that, enemies transform into allies. The wind changes direction. What was miserable begins to glow, like black puddles crossed over by a yellow moon.
Saccharin wouldn’t do for sugar anymore. She invited me to prove her wrong; but, as she was already sure, I couldn’t. She has her tongue. I have mine.
I her hugged her intensely. That worked, then, there. But who was to say she wouldn’t bide her time and try again the following day?
“You don’t have to be desperate to be determined”, she explained. And, having thought about it, I realised I could never trust her again. Affection being something added up in the mind, I departed.
What does it say when even dread of death
Is failing to a hopeful heart deter,
When the grim menace of oblivion
Wilts in the warming poison of your breath?
For past this promised bliss I cannot see,
(Nor hack) into the clear of reason’s light,
Where safely bored I’d numbly be. Joy plant,
Consume, you will, the best of me.
A gun flash seen by very few,
But of this count all will recall
The mane of hair its physics threw
Onto the desk. Befrighted crew
Encharged with pulling curtains closed,
Though some did miss the blast themselves,
Beheld its grim results exposed,
The petals shattered from the rose.
Pink teardrops stained a paper pile
That scripted all that was to come,
And now was here and for a while
Would lonely, ghoulish minds beguile
And haunt, as Chubbuck knew it would,
This being her desired end.
Christine’s farewell was writ in blood;
In death a life is understood.
In this, the forest without clocks,
Where muted grey shades boring green,
Imported time is seized at docks
And shackled off to quarantine.
No years have passed beneath these clouds,
Their concept still a mystery;
The drooping, numb, quiescent crowds
Live caged in still eternity.
We have no use for hopes and fears,
So do not wish, nor dream, nor pine;
For that we’d need days, months, and years,
Forbidden clocks, imported time.