for want of a needle and thread

 

for want of a needle and thread  

in his pockets

a map

a train ticket

a packet of seeds

some keys

money

a handwritten note

his hands    the fists clenched

gripping the holes

through which life had bled out  

drenched the soil  

caul

1 caul   (from qualia)

does it still itch

this skin you were born in

sealed   vacuum-packed

kept in a drawer by the bed

the cap that does not fit    yet   

you will swim   and you will drown

a hapless Lucky lumbered with baggage

Lucky chained to the end of the never-ending chain

running   a skinny-dipper out on the town

out on a limb in limbo dancing on the ropes

bending over backwards   down

on your knees to accept this … 

this gift …  this crown   still scratching

the head pushing through   an egg still hatching  

unwrapping itself    gaining ground 

form over content

 

form over content 

Imago thinks about the car   the snow falling

the snow falling settling on the car

flakes flitting   flake fitting to flake to form

the puzzle of ice   a tight skin of ice forming  

a headache of ice   a skull of ice 

a puzzle without pieces   pieces

he will have to make   tap tap tap

the handle of a hand-held brush dusting

off the snow shush shush to uncover ice

tap tap tapping   the ice cracking

slivers   and shards   shivers   but now

the car shrouded stolid stoic the snow

building itself into a shroud thickening

unthinking solidifying snow turning into ice

ice like a skin tightening on his life

the key in his pocket the key to the car

four days the car has sat shrouded in snow

nowhere to go   nothing to show for

 

the key in his pocket   turn the key

turn the key to open the door

turn the key for the engine to start

his hand on the key in his pocket

to open the door to unlock it to start

the engine to warm it up    the engine

to melt the ice to turn the ice into water 

back into water   water flowing   the car moving

 

the snow falling   nowhere to go   falling 

Babel

Babel  

 

content there’s nothing but content

Imago wakes from his dream to open his eyes on form

 

Imago marooned in the Tate’s Rothko room is soothed

subdued   moved   is a mirror meditating on colour

 

in a library Imago experiences language   on paper

as the instructions for interpretation as experience

 

meanwhile Imago experiences consciousness as interpretation

language as translation   the hermeneutics of being   in a room

 

music is a lake   dipping his hands into the water always the same

a simple compound running through his fingers always different

 

in a word   in a colour   in a sound   Babel   sentenced to life

belief in the form   belief in the content   belief in the knife

 

on the blade   the tongue   the taste of metal on the palate

the brightness    the darkness of blood on the palette

 

on a dark wooden floor   the spatter   on the wall   the splatter  

for sale or rent

 

for sale or rent  

 

buy me   I’m a story for sale   to view

a happiness distilled for the future

pure in the bricks and the mortar

porous the laughter passing through 

                                                             

vacant possession    previous owners evicted

for lack of means   of meaning   restricted   bereft

yet each stripped me bare before they left

carefully ripping out the veiny wires

that fed my soul   stole the arterial pipes

that emptied my sins and desires

abandoned the garden   lapsarian and diluvian

peeled the paint from each room

each wall and ceiling each window and door

down to the bone leaving me raw and unhomed

as if they could erase undo reverse

the narrative the discourse the course the cause

staunch and stop the bleeding   the source

 

buy me   I’m for sale    I’m a promise   I can heal

wrap me in the bandage of belief    put me in your pocket

to retrieve    to steal   like a lover   like a thief

in the alleyways of the heart

keep me from harm   keep me warm   turn up the heat

plug me into your socket   turn me on   turn me on

 

or just rent me   stay   stay awhile   time can be bought

on a lease if you please time is short it’s on the house

look around   breathe   breathe the air   all is fair

you’ll be gone   you’ll have moved on   up or

down the stairs   a flight or two    to grieve

turn me off before you close the door   lock it

  

douse the light   when you leave

naked

 

naked 

 

Imago is riding up the escalator

in a shopping centre   naked again

a hand shielding his penis

as if this lessens the totality of his nakedness

as if this is the seeming centre of his nakedness

no one really notices   this after all is his dream

the dream itself is where imago undresses himself

where he is temporarily stripped of interpretation

where he is really naked   exposed to himself

as a self   an animal in its own skin   no hat to wear

nothing up his sleeve   just him   a me   the fear

both subject and meaning   a tree losing its leaves

is still just a tree in a forest of trees

Cupid's bow

 

Cupid’s bow 

 

the day we never meet

everything carried on as usual

 

water swirling down a sink

a sun setting to rise again

 

in the space between there were stars crossing

doing their best   the competition fierce

 

and you looked up and I looked up

facing the same sky   framing

 

constellations already named and mapped

indifferent for millennia   just the light travelling

 

and the cosmic dust falling and burning

and all those wishes   all those fishes

 

in the sea swimming   swimming

to futures   to you and to me

 

oceans apart   the flight of thought   blowing a kiss

arrows to the heart   skimming the air     falling short