English pastorale: Beware! Trespassers will be Indoctrinated
While walking naked
Into the gas chamber one felt
A certain thrill at
one’s predicament:
bereft as one is of Ambassadors
Plenipotentiaries, creeps
& other former fellow
travellers
on the groovy train
to Gobbledegook Central
Nonetheless is more or less
A condition of extreme despair
Energises oneself to crave
A morsel to eat…
Or is it a trick
To lure me from this
Earth shat-a-ring-a-roses
Endeavour?
Like twits leave sinking ships
~
Tree up (this time round)
On the deal (what)I made
Wit (ha-ha) myself & eye…
One before breakfast
thirteen days a week
for twenty nine days
~
How could I possibly
Make a telling difference
Without self-regulation?
Better word up quick
Stop flying by the seat
Of my sovereignty
Call a May Election
Climb a few more Alptraums
Mourn far distant Maidenhead
Ingratitude did not come easy to Adam at first, but he told me that once you get the hang it, it soon becomes a firm favourite with all the family, & creating just the right environment for it to thrive results in endless time consuming diversion…
—You’re obsessed! I thought, but he was my man and I did not want to prick his bubble
—What do you fancy to eat? I said
—Apple crumble, he replied contemplating apathy
The air grew thick with orange blossom.
~
—Maculate misconceptions are more frequent than first meets the eye, said the Omniscient Narrator, looking straight into camera two. And to me it seems somehow inevitable that this little episode will precede a fall to end all falls
—Well you should bloody well know, I thought, knowingly
Adam began to weep in despair, smelling trouble in the air, and cursed the green lentil stew for provoking his melancholia, exploiting his innocence.
—Fuck the crumble! I thought, angrily crunching the rosy apple, which, it must be said, tasted everso tangy if not a little toxic
~
Before I knew it I was flat on my back writhing in ecstasy with an Anaconda watching on, reading Constrictor’s Monthly, and smiling benignly at my antics
—You been at the apples, I see, it said in a broad, warm, matriarchal brogue
—Am I still in Eden? I asked
—No, Cirencester, the Serpent replied. All the apples you want here, my dear. Truth be told that’s all there fucking is. Excuse my French.
—Original Sin, I sobbed
—Non, mon petit dejeuner, said the Anaconda. Golden Delicious.
Timidly in new boots & scanties
Checking through messages
Lost in space in time
Pull blinds back…one two three cars
Unusual: three suspect pallets
strew non-conformist corners
heads jack-knifed on thin ice
black hole spills its load
All is quiet on New Year’s Day
Repeats on me like
Suspect mackerel
Wished my nostrils
happy birthday
Instead of New Year
Onset doolally
Or transubstantiation?
The clue lies in the carpet—
Cleopatra is present
If not quite with it
Still beggars can’t be choosers
& Donald where’s your trousers?
The wind blows high blows low
Over hollow land
Silly Land
Five hundred before
legendary lost lunchtime
Torrential London
buses, easy similes,
heavy workload for
eternal editors,
that which is permanently
out to luncheon,
wield escutcheon spoon
limply with panache
seas contain plenty fishes
most worth throwing back
kept from the saddle by sleep and cider,
nestled in this cluttered room, this dimlit
hibernation station, wallow fallow in
the gathered gloom, the afternoon moon
this is the time for those who dream in daytime,
those who gather and hunt, those who like me
watch from windows, making shade from shadow,
form from substance, the things that dreams are made on.
To meet
face to face
my face and me
to gaze agog
on a sea of me.
A sea
of sudden time
surrounds, breaches,
fills my head from source:
one bright blithe crystal
on the russet titanium floor,
caught in a chance manner,
a blip,
a pulse,
the fading morning bonnet fleets.
Gone as quick as it came,
we chanced a profound sorrow to part
and were gone.
Cool moon and Venus,
thick tar bipolar cable
stands in for a horizon,
shutter your left eye
frame it all in one clean
elongated myopic square
careful to include
insignificant details-
bare rowan twigs,
fragile mildew gilded boughs,
beatified by sun,
bronzed as clean new gold.
(midwinter berries perish
in robust spring storms,
eaten by cold doves,
or down drains
flapping about
like sink spiders floundering
in numinous U-bends
under sinks
all over the world).
Tea tree pungency
Midday twenty three.
Kilbride’s secret went
to the grave with him
everso tiny
peanut butter sandwiches
stitched into his stomach lining
there were no flies on Kilbride
just wasps and hornets
Pretty common for late August
In Andalucía