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"Ist sie schön und gut dazu?
Reiz labt wie milde Kindheit;
Ihrem Aug' eilt Amor zu,
Dort heilt er seine Blindheit
Und verweilt in süßer Ruh."
Too many ordinary enticers
linens to be folded
anything cellophane shinesback
without shimmies; that’s the point.
Black – if only grey old flower
shadows could get there, undroop,
then death (or slowly dying) would pretty paint it-
self along shelfwalls
then menstruation to be dealt
cards stacked against aces always
in red not even, odds,
hearts, fuck no –
diamonds.
<> <> <>
No tutelage down the old
meat-safe sides either:
2 value packs of Tesco Apple n Orange.
Follow the salt stain rivulets
where the washing machine skewered
along the flags, hell no
your hand a fairy telepathic
orgone magicker
a long, long my need-flows
your agains
your cock a barometer
measuring highlows
_ _ _
It could be no. 49.
Hold on a sec.
She might be screamin’ for the moon
to blow
its full round all pocks and a
smile
and she fills up her dishwasher
and hangs ironing
and checks the cat’s out
and tomorrow’ll wave
and pretend coffee?
hell no
my sisal edge
a clothes moth irritation
skank along where knicker crack
cracked out dry-so
smell my need-you
dust imploding, shinies
teeth,
tea decaffeinated for sleep,
the need for
armies
your armies look for gradations
oh-so s
just-so s
level headedness
child raising qualities
pence off dog food, mouths,
mouths to feed
and wee small hours
hours as huge as stars
nothing abhorrent
goohglutz, licking sleep from our eyes
"Love doth to her eyes repair,
To help him of his blindness,"
This time, we didn’t do
piss down my leg.
Your mouth come unsutured.
Her journal up on the shelf
staring at me.
Her name a song by Freudian slip
a jewel of the mouth.
Your mouth my baby mouth
feeding and still mouths to feed
and could I tell them the truth?
To help him of his blindness
I want more love for her.
Less News for me.
And please God,
no scarabs under the bed,
no deathwatch in the chimneys.
But groceries,
a plane overhead,
a little sugar, yes.
Bring me back.
Him of his
Ooze like demented deflourided
undumblond ador(n)ed
minimus oilslick
chiding down the discovery
a leg landslide
generating you
52 in a pack
52 reasons to love and only one lie perhaps
52 in a pack
but I can never remember if that includes the joker
hearts, aces gone the way of carpets
Damn Aquinas for his negative theology
his
incomprehensibility
his
living in
his head
tell me tales of whiskey
gun fights between pupils
the stare the stare of a fear when he knows it
knows death
and can admit to its inevitability
not this hanging on
someone who doesn’t mind dried ketchup
songs sealed in the alley
the back alley
hateful vengeance
breath, not the whoosh of Lubeck’s Right Whales
but a stale British rail sandwich
and tales of old ladies arguing over your seat
and menopausal exhaustion
sofa throws clogged by dog
The Saudi’s cannot catch
the madfuck terrorists
stupid TV cow
pontificates as harridan
a hair-do because I’m worth it
back
Your sweet, sweet pearls
dried on my shoulder
my clot a no-go down the pan
and always a list
Please God,
help him of his blindness
and being helped, inhabit here.
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