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