We are family

We are family. pic.jpg

 

All of this will go. Be gone.

I am in the dissolving instant

already dust  of the future

That text from Gilly brought it home,

how she remembered us on a patch of grass in Southbourne

and me imagining it was a pitch, a full-blown wicket

and I could score

make centuries and maiden over’s with my cousin

unaware of her sex or its implications

and now,  perhaps half a century later

I am returned by words and the memories of another person’s cache

of history to a place and a time I thought I had lost

Sometime soon I will blink and someone else will be reminding me

of where I have been

By God, is that what I get from walking the Dog

the intoxicating sense of memory unearthing scattered parts

of me

Derision

Derision. pic

‘it’s beautiful’,  he said

from the bottom of the wishing well

his eyes, intent, squirming

to find light and  traces of form

for a way out, a clue. A shape revealed.

A helix. An escape. An easy win

like the numbers on a lottery ticket

yet always they seem so distant

so not palpable. Fathoms below and miles above

 they are treasures of the rainbow. Ephemera.

 

And so he went on saying things

clutching at all forms of optimism

knowing that in truth he was going blind

as the bets were lost

All belief, beggared and lost in shallows

the words just backward utterances. Infarcts.

The light going skinny, malnourished to a fade

so grey and white that winter would muscle in

even into this empty spring

from which, when he looked up

he saw death with petals in his eyes

and the earth, a crust at their rims

So many scattered things

Encore

Encore.pic for poem

 

vanity will be the death of me

with its urbane tendrils clinging

like entropy to everything

I ever held dear

elevating innuendo to precise sneers

for I am stunned

by my own false perceptions

living now in fear of the inevitable

the drool, the smell of piss

 my very own creeping desuetude

and the irony of fake pride

that will lick at my withering sides

in the calm and measured preparation

awaiting us all in the queue

for the final curtain

Big Top

Big Top. pic

 

other people’s encampments, their pleasure zones, for once,

are not off-limits or out of bounds

Their gaudy fare and pick-pockets mix with those types who

sport tattoos, chew gum and wear flamboyant  facial hair

The otherness of it all, the pornography of colour and sound

and everything somehow beyond confession as if it was

all dressed up in the dark so pleasure and sin can be

made thrilling in the anonymity of shared experience

 

Those minstrels come to town in wagons and caravans

that seem to be beyond normal law

Charlatans with soft toys and goldfish they would sell as gifts

All gaudy hostages in transit, into whose misfortune we become

complicit

The ground itself a crime scene. Innocent lush grass crushed

not just once but an entire Village Green, a sacred space, sacrificed

to organs and screams. And then it’s gone

The Circus woven and spun into and out of itself

The Big Top, fascinatingly,  moving on and leaving me with

distorted visions in vanishing hub caps

my soiled prurience intact,  until they roll into town again