Saturday, April 15, 2006

A currently unaffiliated & unpublished poem from 2004


Impossible to say anything
in particular, the familiar
always blocked up
with some silent
conversation the shape
of a pistol on the point
of blowing off
Small and quite pretty,
of the sort used by the middle class

It was impossible to see
along the whole length
of the chamber sent him
by God
There was the usual
extremely dark little hole,
ablaze with work
The work gave space
for workers, replenished
now and again from the limits
of weaker dreams
The old placid
toleration took
no notice,
wandered off to find
amusement elsewhere
The ordinary commonplace
opportunity to possess
secretly displaying
a confiding smile

A dubious motion
took delight like a winged
thing, and failed.
Another journey forward
sidled out down among
the tools as far as possible
out of reach and close to
‘they all seemed screwed’