Monday, November 26, 2012

picnic dreamers ~ Iain Britton


nest in the mouths of cats

the band rotunda

        which once housed a queen

is now occupied by a pastor


              killer lines from revelations

a headache for locals         and tribal affiliates

      down from the hills

for a change of scenery


       the city’s chopped-down ghosts

              of battlefields

                 are honoured

        amongst the shrubberies

                    the claws and fangs

of night-time frivolities the urges of a populace
unzipping itself for the all-seeing eye of a crystal ball

the square’s

     a drawcard for the main street mollys

          the stanleys hooked on fag ends the

would-be picnic dreamers

              asleep in their erotic sheathes

my argument is with

                the pond the stars parked up like small boats the girl on the bridge
                halo-watching the night sky / my argument is why a bridge a pond
                the decision to step up / slot perfectly into her comfort zone

                why her


                                        not all is supposed to be
                                        should look as it should

                                        be exactly as it was at the start

                                       not all requires clarification

we perform rituals

under the moon’s crumpled make-up

our reflections stir fingerprints on the water

gullies of flesh

open up /         and voices rush in

                i hate it when all else fragments /

                falls apart

                mistakes happen

                systems falter

                my grip softens

we no longer run naked

                              through cells of make-believe

               or feel the heart’s sudden jolt

               a war bell’s clapper touch bronze

               the magnitude of distances close up


        i struggle

                           to hold my ground

                 a concession is made

        i return to her room her bed

                       the morning intrudes

                           and a sense of displacement

                 vanishes /       

No comments: