Fragment 66
the mercy road
to a different wilderness
graced by the hand that beats the drum
the mercy road
to a different wilderness
graced by the hand that beats the drum
The loving wing that beats against
the beloved air gives us
an inkling of angels.
The muscle-memory of love.
Tainted Love is playing on iTunes – we sing into imaginary fist-mics, skanking, our voices getting louder, our grins wider, eye to decadent, rock-and-roll-as-a-lifestyle eye.
when he said: with you
there’s always honey on my spoon.
My last comrade from ’36, I grip your hand
and hear you whisper Revolución.
I know you meant to say amor,
but it will do.
In a night as thick as the slaughter of firstborn
a girl limps home from a wedding party,
brews a cup of heartsease tea, kindles her Kindle,
and reads about love.
Beside the everyday there are other ghosts, madwomen, lovers, pains, cruelties, tyrants, dreams, manners, mothers, storms, moorlands, mountains, escapes, hearts, tears, flowers, deaths, legends, lives. Why guard her own?
We were (true, we are still) Calibri and Perpetua,
on different pages, but still finding marriage,
brought to bear on words, stillness of the ink,
dazzle of the paper.
If they kept soup, not bucks, in banks
you could make deposits in the summer
– maybe borrow beer or lemonade elsewhere –
then watch your savings grow, and make withdrawals
in the winter when you needed warmth and food.
The Chairman’s bonus could be a bowl of Scotch Broth or a pan of lobscouse. Meanwhile some folk might open money-kitchens for the homeless.
[PS. It’s called your butt because that’s where the billygoat aims]
I saw the people clustered round you.
Let me through, I said, I’m a heart specialist.
Then I knelt and whispered – Trust me, I’m a lover.
I carry your bags every day.
Thank you comrade, you say,
whilst in my head I turn
the social value of my work
into a bunch of roses.
