guided tour

guided tour (Imago considers posterity)  

 

and here is his desk

or rather a reproduction made from

a pencil sketch that may have been

drawn by the woman who was said to have been

his lover where his head would have rested

upon the cool dark wood seeking inspiration

 

and here is a chair very like the one

he would have actually sat upon

to compose his greatest works

or to dwell upon them

as they came into being

or if they had been written elsewhere 

 

and here is the window

the view from which

his eyes would have settled upon

as he contemplated the empty page  

the trees have gone of course

and what’s left of the sky …

 

let’s move on to the bedroom

and to where the actual chamber pot is said to lie … 

snowman

 

snowman  

 

Imago watches snow fall

like slow rain each flake

unique a six-sided trick

shaped by its journey

to cluster on the surfaces

of the earth compound

as simple as water

a herd animal sheltering in a storm

the shrugging on of another skin

a snowball fight an Olympic event

a snowman atop a mountain

the reaching of a peak

an iceberg on the tip of the tongue

a glacier as slow as time

an avalanche as quick

an age advances retreats reveals

a fingerprint like a fossil

a Christmas card

the icing on the cake

 

How the heart melts

such a thing

 

such a thing    

 

as a cake there

on a white plate untouched

there’s some kind of cake a fruit charlotte

the succulence of apple with berries bleeding into

the meringue mixed in with the crispy pastry crumble

a work of art colours texture working in the mind on the palate

the tongue the soft gush of saliva the plain white canvas of the plate

I take a fork break off a piece but am stopped the hostess leaning in over

me her hand holding down my own a cake fork she says insistent replacing the

fork in my hand with a cake fork and I am stopped for a moment and then it slips

into place the shopping online socmed a cake fork the cake upon a white plate the cost

of a set of cake forks of white plates the pleasure the lifestyle the idea I take the cake fork

carry the cake on its white platter out into the cave of darkness and sit with others by the fire

in the garden our shadows cast against the dark wall of trees behind us and I break off a forkful

and I lift it slowly to my mouth and I want to believe that this cake will taste as good as it looked

in the artificial light of the kitchen before the hostess leaned in over me and instructed me urging

me to take a cake fork and stab it into my heart and stab and stab and stab and so fix the wound

clear out

 

clear-out 

 

the skip arrives   unloaded like a burden

metal against metal   the machinery

the grinding mechanics of what is still yet empty

with the attitude of a coffin chosen but unfilled sturdy

 

then the work begins   years that have carelessly gathered

in boxes overfilled and spilling in black binbags stuffed

bursting and split amongst webs forlorn and tattered

are dragged and heaved through opened windows

 

to fall

 

cascades of childhoods a honeymoon and holidays

of clothes outgrown cast-offs and hand-me-downs

the broken and the bent the damaged and the disowned

the flotsam and jetsam of undiscovered beaches of unremembered bays

exuviation

 

Exuviation  

 

Imago wakes one day to wonder if the soul

Of the child will accompany the soul of the adult into heaven

For in a dream from which he awoke in a sweat

His younger selves lay upon the floor discarded

Were draped over chairs drying had been folded carefully

Then stuffed into chests of drawers were hanged

In cluttered wardrobes unwashed unironed innocent

Blooded   bloodied and fleshless   price paid

Disingenuous unsung

Imago shivers in the skin he is yet to shed

Naked and cold with no hands to hold

on stage

 

onstage

     

there’s all that waiting in the wings

other people’s time   for you nothing

just a twinkle in someone’s eye and then

led to what you believe is centre stage

not yet spotlit   the lights coming up

taking an age the crowd restless

and so many extras

and those first-night nerves that last

a lifetime even with all that prompting

and such a short run   a premiere

an unending rehearsal ending

in Act VI   the curtain closed

the auditorium empty

the stage in darkness

the caretaker’s

turning of the key

 

everyone has gone home

gone to the after-party

uninvited

alone

in wonder

in wonder

 

in the atlas of my body

there is the country of me

a kingdom where I rules

we suppose the heart

its beating of life of love –

can life love live in the meat

the muscle of a ticking clock?

or the brain? that tissue of lies

of lives the story the pathology

of the diseased the narrative

breadcrumbs once upon a time …

a sneeze and therein the mind

find it scan it X- ray the map

X marks the spot buried treasure

 

look in the mirror each day   trace

the quiet betrayal as the body deserts you

stare at the intimacy of DNA

the flag the coat a little worn

a hand-me-down cut to fit

its subtle disguise you   you

a passerby passing by

looking for direction

crossing borders heading west

hitching a ride in a cul-de-sac

for which you are the map

and there you are at the back of the bus

staring out the window at the scenery

in wonder 

a view from a window

 

a view from a window

 

a garden blanketed   somewhat desolate

there’s a bench rimmed in snow

its back struts darkly visible   a rack of ribs

old bones aching with the cold

piano keys unplayed   a noteless wordless stave

and opposite   a buried flower bed

with frozen knuckles of black stems

clawing the air

and beyond by the high wall a colonnade

of deciduous trees arterial diagrammatic and exact

supporting a blank sky   silence 

 

trying to picture the summer

that would eventually paint this scene

to feel its heat to see the trees leafed

the sky released the flowers bloomed

those painted fists the clamour of colour

to get the sense of time moved on

of the world turning again

the heart unclenched

a figure   figures   sitting on the bench

 

music  

them dead

 

them dead

 

it’s hard to think of them dead

when there’s always been that absence

the excuses of time and distance

they’re still not here in the same way

living in that part of the mind that does not

mind yet lingers constantly on its own innocence

that part of the mind where no one really ages

and the futures always there   waiting   undelivered

the book’s unturned pages where

you’ve been living since you were seventeen

or so   no matter what the mirror suggests

the incremental stages of departure unseen

unnamed     uncalled

the symptoms of a disease that do not manifest

yet are slowly killing you all

the same

so, harder still to think of yourself dead

unspared

outside of the endgame  

of the wood

 

of the wood

the daylight shelters here for the night

amongst the trees builds its nest snuggles

up to the roots rolls in the moss the mulch

disguised as darkness as a place not

not a time we travel through the moon

snagged in the drift net of branches struggles

to escape flees beneath the clouds going

nowhere west a softness underfoot a fox

a badger a nocturnal creature a sudden

crack of tinder a small voice made large

and loud the noises come here too to change

their shape to bend and stretch to imitate

and intimidate the silence that itself feels

uncomfortable and broken wishing for

morning mourning like birdsong in the dawn

daylight retreating leaving shadows brushstrokes

of itself streaks amongst the leaves light rising

slurred a drunk on his way home lurching on un

even ground dreaming of words that could …

but stumbling he can’t see the trees for the would

And the winner is ...

And the winner is …

 

Imagine all the jigsaw puzzles

not yet in their boxes

all those pieces

loose upon

littering

the floor

 

Imagine time’s fingers busy

ceaselessly filling

box after box

innocently

randomly

spore

after

spore

 

Imagine that most times

the pieces in a box do

not fit together

to create

a picture

a window

or a door

an after

a before

 

Imagine two people in the dark

night after night   year after

year century after century

searching or not to find

a box   any old box 

unlucky     lucky

the accidental

incidental

puzzle

of

you

 

WARNING: The finished puzzle may vary from the picture on the box lid.  Contains fragile pieces which may easily be damaged if forced to fit in. No responsibility can be accepted for poor assemblage.  Once the box is opened, the goods cannot be returned unless there are exceptionable circumstances. Under no circumstances can the goods be exchanged. 

other lives

other lives

other people have lives that come at them

like a knife attack in the dark

other people have lives that chase them 

across continents   where

there is the stark truth of no escape

still others live with the ghosts of the dead

being kicked around in their heads

there are other people who have a life

that is like gripping the blade of the knife

clinging to the undercarriage of the world

unfurled

 

and there are others who on a Saturday evening

standing before the mirror having checked their hair

pat their pockets   money   keys   cigarettes   knife

 

imagine the view

snapshot

snapshot

 

he feels convinced that if he just keeps watching

he will see her turn away from the party

from the unseen person who is making her laugh

see her leave the kitchen and make her way

up the dark narrow staircase

there would be a creak near the top

she would tiptoe along the landing

to his bedroom door   left ajar

streetlight washed against the curtains

to watch him sleeping

 

and though he is awake

he doesn’t open his eyes

he doesn’t know why   so

somehow she’s still watching and

she’s still in the kitchen still laughing

at that joke of someone unseen   happy

the light still streaming through the aperture

into the now unshuttered eye   transforming

the chemical memory of time’s camera   

he still listens for the sound

that creak of a stair

a footstep coming up, a footstep going down

she’ll be there always now 

At some point

 At some point

 

he moved into the attic of himself

taking a sliver of a broken mirror

some string a knife and a torch

 

leaving a framed photograph of himself

centre-squared on the living room wall

facing the window where the world carried on

 

in the photo he was twenty-one face fair

undefeated   in good bodily health

with all to come and still to be done  so there

 

in the poor soothing light of the loft

he would angle to catch the soft dregs of sunshine

he would measure the reduction of shadows

 

in knotted lengths slicing through time

he would illuminate the rucked surface of dark corners

the seduction of how crooked timber lies

 

and he would remember nothing straight

still seeing through a young man’s eyes

the beauty cornered   startled   the fear   the hate

Bematist

 

Bematist   

 

Sisyphus calculating counting

pacing taking the measure of

the world from Alexandria

to the here and now sees

the shadow reducing

along the curvature

of the earth only

then to light up

the darkness

a moment

of water

caught

a well

slick

and

an

I

1

reflected on a shimmering surface   staring back   gone

Sisyphus

Eratosthenes

Bematist

broken

 

broken

 

after the party

where something had happened

something in a cupboard some permission

something that made him think his luck was in

he walks her home in the rain

walking together alone

up the long slow hill of Ashby Lane

him wanting his end of the unspoken bargain

to begin   her wandering to the end of her skin

 

a passing car’s headlights picks them out

the sudden change of size   then gone  

then the slow turning turning away   

of the unseen driver’s eyes 

     

suddenly she too wants it done with

she can’t explain can’t put it into words

the submission

she’s falling under the wheels again

letting him lead her on

towards the slow uncoiling of humiliation

where she has to pay out enough rope

something is to be given   taken

through a gate   down a garden path

half-lit under trees   down on her already

tattered coat spread beneath them   

underneath them the cold slippery cement

of somebody’s property   somebody’s dream

some other family’s sleeping lamentable darkness

they sell themselves   each other   cheaply   as broken

his eyes are shut tight      hers are wide open   starless

Souvenir

Souvenir

 

There is upstairs in the spare room

in a cupboard upon a shelf

out of reach and gathering dust

a broken jar

which he can no longer fill

with salves such as pity, love, hope or self

 

The skin and what is within is dry and cracked,

the conscience flaked, peeled away, still

the view from the window is of a raw sky

bloody   flayed   glorious    of and in itself