Mimesis

(By Gub, the 30th of January, Toronto)

What thrusts the
Recalcitrant
Player
Towards the light?

Stretches the Signet’s
Neck
As a measuring tape

Records failure
Dispassionate as time.

This abusive desire for artifice,
For vision,
To re-dress the set.

Wretched the aspiration
To challenge imperfection
With inner beauty, or perceived
strengths.

In Wind and running water
Words drown.

The black swan’s
Victory is the suicide
Of the white swan

Love dies
Incomprehensive
Of duty -

To god.

Such hunger to
Exceed mortal
Station

Break the bounds
Of divine configuration.

To dream otherwise is insanity.

And yet,

We must.

Longitude

(the 27th of January, London)

I’ve laboured
Triumphed
Over movement
And distance
Time’s hunger
Forgotten,
Firmly encased in a
Watch-size pocket.
Weary sentries guard
The lonely wolf
Of desire.
When the night is black
And the stars seem
Distant sea-gypsies,
Draw close to home
The perfect line
Where world begins,
Zero degrees of separation,
A lead back to you.

In The Room

(the 15 of January, 2010, Ealing)

In the room, half past noon
We sat down and she said:
"You may pretend to be a professional
If you choose
But
You’re wearing the wrong coloured shoes
I can’t take my eyes off your silver shoes"
So I thought
I'm too visible
Your eyes too eager
Now that I've felt
Your bite
And I’m still here
Pretending the pieces of "I"
Are all together.
Lets find out whether
I can do enough
Yo take your mind
Off my
Wrong coloured shoes
To find out why the black bird in your head
Sings the blues.

In the room, half past one
We sat down and he said:
"I am the reason mum and dad
Still share the same bed
I am the saviour, the prophet,
The kid that the chef wouldn’t dare to buffet.
And I want to do good, and I want to do well-"
I just stared at him
As if under some spell.
And I too longed to worship this golden calf
And I could tell that
Love
Would never be sweeter
If I could hold
Those hands
Peeling with dryness
If I could kiss those eyes
Melting with sadness.
If I could just say:
You are good, my love, good.
The hour closing in on us,
I saw him away
Aura, wings and all,
Seeped through the door.
A golden ship sailing out of the bay.
And it felt as if light
Had been sucked out of the room.
Cinderella was left in rags
Holding a broom.

In the room, half past two
We sat down and she said
"Drugs have taken my son.
To me he is dead, to his own miserable habit wed.
I can’t cry no more"
And she wept and she wept
She was spilling all over the floor
I fought the flood
Threw buckets of water
Overboard
Until my arms were sore
Until I felt I could not hold this bending willow
Any more.
I kept my feet dry
My eyes firm on the shore.
Later, alone
On a platform to home
I took a chance look
Down the bottomless
Well of sadness
Searing incarnate madness
I cried raw tears
Under Detatchment’s
sturdy dome.

The Flood

(Boxing Day, 2010)

Pulling my son on a sledge
Treadmill of
White memories:
My father's arms -
Strong grip on the rope
And me
The load perched up
On green wood-planks
And rusted iron
Lost in exhilarating flight
On a country road.

I'm rushing now
Sleet dissolves the
Screen of my projections
And foamy flesh of
Unrolled snowmen.
My son is whinging
Against the cold.
Stubborn, I carry on.
By God
This reluctant child
Who won't play ball
Who rejects his father's embrace,
And strangers' eyes rested on his face,
Will have it all!