Traces

Traces. pic for poem

 

distortions of the real world are glimpsed

in the fading light from planets we cannot reach

we writhe and moan at fallen beauty

exaggerations of form that illuminate our limitations

like

soft green moss on the leeward side of a fallen branch

as if beauty would adhere to the rules of an auction

where the gavel comes down and makes a pronouncement on taste

though the ‘blind bids’ are king in the market place of ART

your thoughts kind sir/madam are as nought

you may keep them to yourself when

the only margin for error is poverty

and if you inhabit that space you are inadmissible – hard fact

for beauty that has form can be traded

but the peasant must be willing to sweat in order to admire

the finer things and dream – to aspire

and chase shadows that even the rich are aware of

because in the shallows there is a harbour

where dreams and boats drown in

far removed from honest toil

Tips on self-improvement

I'll keep an eye on you

 

eradicate – eradicate

Dalek like they make

shots at redemption

identify – identify

those areas at risk

make clean sweeps

I have a plan

I’ll adopt a mantra

move on and grow

but I wonder

because I have been fit

but fit for what

and  where do the guru’s get their tips and how

do they maintain their virtue

when most of us identify with greed

and watch the news and slide

toward a listless nadir

strung out on disappointments

I’ve heard the exhortations of revivalists

who chant, goggle-eyed and sweating

for us to chase a rainbow

with imprecations to mystify the clogged arteries

and sticky tendons of the unfit

because I have been fit

but fit for what

unleashing desire

spawning acolytes in lycra

trim and taut and virtuous

yet deep down I know

the Dalek shouts to troops

who goose step in unison

along a road I am bound

to meet them on

Expectant

Expectant. pic

I want more

That is my condition. My dread

I am the eager hunger

a lust of want on margins

imagined, never seen

Of echoes, shreds of neverbeens

dying coals and finite seams

that refuse to manifest.

Perhaps it is all pornography

it’s crooked lines on pure white paper

and stains on beauty where promises

were never kept.

What is left is a crust

of tears, wind-dried

a legacy that anthropologists will find

and with it kindly trace a history

from something

I never knew

Forced optimism

Great stridesOh, the waste

As each day opens with sloth

And waits for duty or conscience to prick

The torpor that lays like fog

Over the mind, the body and the being

 

Oh, the slog

It is to inhabit clothes

That signify an aim in life

That indicate a desire to do

That will last the course and return to base

 

Oh, the hope

That in all of this recurring effort

The point should not be lost

That we are morsels, fragments of fate

Who can crawl around reason and smile

For we have plans