The Whole Hole

The whole hole, a doom laden pit; the weight of which bent our backs until we crawled about following blindly the buttocks in front. In saving ourselves we carved and sliced and chopped; doling the whole in wholly unique holes.  Holes forming groves and dents and hidden dips. Containers for puddles and ponds and murky pools. Some yet carried the weight and bent double, toppled; threw themselves in. Only you can’t become the inside only the out. And you just cannot will yourself around a hole you’re in.  My whole is tied in string, meshed in wire and pearled in knitted wool; carved into shutters, nailed under floors and bound in the words of my holy book. In the beginning I religiously cupped my hands to my face and drank it in. On dark nights, as the outside of a quart of shine, naked in my old boots, with the wind in my toes and the dirt firmly under my right heal, those little holes inside, together, grow whole old memories and push out joyous tears of our past hollow.

Thought’s of the Narcissist

I am.

And you, Sir

definitely

are not.

The Tranny Dowstairs

air kisses show a
transsexuals monsters –
averted eyes
sticks and stones don’t raise
lady lumps and man bumps

Barefoot and Redfaced

my feet are a
labyrinth in the maze –
lobster on the beach

Dog Soup

Today I’m eating my dog.  His bones give a literal feeling to the credit crunch as I crack them in my month for marrow.  The old man dispatched him quickly; all over the country.  His soft white fur lines the slippers of several lawyers wife’s, his meat is resting in the window of a well known middle class butcher and his skull will soon be high London art.  I’m left with a bag of bones and bits for soup.  I threaded a dewclaw onto a tendon and fastened it around my neck and boiled the rest in tined peach juice.  He’ll warm cleaner feet tonight, but I won’t have to share my breakfast cabbage.  When the world turns my way again, I’ll use the DNA from the claw to clone him anew and after church we’ll once more dance in the local park before a heaped Sunday lunch. A Candle Maker is never out of work for long, so I’ll sleep deep for the morrow.

The Silence of a Dry Twig

A dry twig off the old branch
of the long dead oak tree,
that stands alone against
the slow outside curve of the
more than man deep stream.

A dry twig held in two clean
fingers and an everyday thumb
chambers the silence inside,
the prize of the noisy mind
that now pushes skin on wood.

A dry twig cracks its silence out
freezing rustling feet and closing
cheeping beaks; soothing wind,
water and thought into a single
image that stops the clacking clock.

A dry twig severed and emptied
discarded on the muddy bank,
is tidied away to the magpies
nest high in the dead oak tree
where silence rarely falls.

Channelled

i
Freedom is a White Dot.
In a state where even thought is vicarious, broadcast
wholesale, there is no struggle. No freedom fighters.

The free are seen every day, hidden only by last years drab.
Backgrounders; talking, playing, sitting almost off camera.
An underground of conscientious objectors; questioning.

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Front Window

lawn littered
by fat leg’ed witless oaf –
depression lingers

Cunning Detritus

Several half smoked ciggys
and a damp Havana butt.
A broken kiddie’s tricycle.
Enough planks and beams of wood
to make a large dog house
And an old dog house.
Nuts and bolts and the spanners to tighten.
Bottles whole and in half
And assortment of branches,
a thick trunk and a bundle of sticks.
A bonnet, two doors and a seat,
enough tyres to stack as high as my head
and a black bended steering wheel.
A severed dolls head and a dead cat.
A huge double mattress hiding
the mangled end of a ladder.
A paint can not quiet crushed flat.

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Downpause

tightness fills the air
lightening strikes downward soon –
butterfly under leaves