Apples and cheese
I wouldn’t make much of a ploughman
given I don’t like apples or cheese.
In bed I’d unshirt him
enjoy all the things
and then like beer off a dog’s lip
the deep sea breathe -
and while he’s sleeping I’d live in an underhand arm current
of an open eye sailor who travels on tidal creel
charting the tonal on urchins and octopi,
making the sun lover the waves off its seal.
Duvet land logged I’d get up and bare feet shuffle
past town signs
and land lines
and washing held back with string
and like a chorusing estuary
the marked moles and dark larks
would come out to greet
and never report what they’d seen.
And he wouldn’t think of me
but signing off pastures
in boots with a biro and clip board
noting earth jolts, sand salt
and costly habitat tremours.
Comments
markbrown | January 30, 2008 - 00:46
Reminded of Wire again, witness 'Mercy' off of Chairs Missing:
"Crooks lay in a weighted state waiting for the dead assassin while the rust pure powder puffs, a shimmering opaque red / Snow storms forecast imminently in areas Dogger, Viking, Moray, Forth, and Orkney. / Keeping cover in denuded scrub, the school destroyed raised the club, panic spreading with threat of fire. Crowding beneath a layer of foam, refugees intertwined, alone... / Seems like dark grey stockings in the raking torchlight with 4 AM stubble, a midnight transvestite."
I think what gives me this feeling is the feeling of almost phonetics, as if span began by singing nonsense syllables like a lonely child then turned them into words, then shaped and carved the words into meaning.
It beguiles me, because it feels like mystery.
I'm also in love with the geographic and scientific sounds, which have a music and mystery of their own.
Cheers,
Mark
HaiAnh | February 16, 2008 - 20:27
You had me from the word apples! A brilliant poem. Ax