Kvenna ráð

I write on rice-paper. If necessary I can eat my words.

Category: poem

39

39

A retreat from the lyric, but not a retreat, more an advance in a different direction. ©Marie Marshall

jupiter

 

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A retreat from the lyric, but not a retreat, more an advance in a different direction. ©Marie Marshall

jupiter

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A retreat from the Lyric. ©Marie Marshall

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A retreat from the lyric © Marie Marshall

jupiter

The most honest devil is despair

The most honest devil is despair, singing
tunelessly about his lost home, strung out,
pants-seat patched from wet pavements,
back against rough bricks scratched
through his nightshift, a peach by his right
hand, he won’t reach for it, a fiddle by his
left he won’t play, a switch by his shoulder
he won’t lean on for light; but at least his
long lost home’s his mantra, he’ll never see
it, he’ll never sell a bootlace and the fare’s
steep, the stair’s steep, that old moving stair
where you can sit and watch a shower of
Newton’s apples and, if you have no despair,
no devil in you, you can reach out and catch
one with amazing (he doesn’t reach out) grace.

Despair, he remembers tunes, a whole pibroch
of glory, pitch, waver, that fade as mouth opens,
that patch of wet looks like Australia, the apples
bounce by, each one bruising bounce-by-bounce,
after bounce, the peach sits dumb, the fiddle
noticeably over time succumbs to tension and
bows, neck the leg of a nursing chair, rattle of
pebbles in the bodywork, surface grey fishskin,
strings making cartruts, fit for hangmanstraps,
bodylights, hoversaws, rickclamps, coreplasters,
stingman magistrates, coldkin jarheads, jamfree
judases, killbottles, the narrative of the honest
devil despair.

The wetpatch is Antarctica, sundry and cold,
the scars from the bricks open and won’t close,
the saturation climbs his nightsark, his mouth
is a round O, a calamity; he fell with all the
other angels, his transformation from bird to
bat, his flight only downwards, the only regretful
angel, hence his half-honesty, lie-wallow, the
neon near him journeys red, yellow, blue,
rossgiallo, gialloblu, blurosso, he wrings
his hands, rings his fingers, indexes a new
confession on the flagstones but forgets to
express vowels, thus: ’m srry ddn’t mn t.

His smartphone clingles but he doesn’t answer,
because it would be no one, it would be “No 1,”
his wallpaper is a shade greyer than black.

His mouth is a round O his tongue makes Q,
lads and lasses shoe by, hop by, pass him by,
or try because he’s a giant disguised as a little
man, they have to use dance steps, he is
seductive, swings his idle arm out and asks
why the hell, what’s the use, dance steps,
what. They say fast, forgetting spaces
Ohonestdevildespairtelluswhattodo and he
replies d nthng bcs thr s nthng y cn d.

He is truly seductive, being the killer of vowels,
his whole clothing a superGaia now, the wet
only missing he pantcuffs yet, part of he socks,
the armpit of he undershift, his crying but like
tears you can’t pity, won’t, crying like coldsores,
like allsores, give him leave, but like a grim
preacher, like the tidiest, straighttoothed,
sobersuit telebob, his followers legion-up
in rows, because despair’s a big, big deal.

So.

“I mean.”

Honest devil, a touchstone, jack, up, ruby,
gehenna, garage, gall, gang, griddle, gaul,
go, the blind bury the blind, he smartphone
fills up with #s and @s while his not looking,
bland, opinion, guard, a-go-go, go, figure,
repeated ad infinitum, without charge, no.

He trail just go cold.

__________

jupiterRetreat from the lyric © Marie Marshall

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A retreat from the lyric © Marie Marshall

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A retreat from the lyric. ©Marie Marshall

jupiter

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32c

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©Marie Marshall

“We gave Old Pitch
free run of the holy words
and called him alt-God,”
you told me. That was over coffee,
so it must be true.

jupiter

 

 

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31

“Our world so shit-deep in sin that all our saviours are bastards.”

© Marie Marshall

jupiter

is how love works for me

is-how-love-works-for-me

©Marie Marshall

jupiter