Poo Corner (Issue 2)

The Hand that takes the Money
How many souls have made colours with this hand?
Are there memories of those that held it,
unmarked yet with thoughts of love immortal
Today, as on so many days presently
you open it to strangers eager to cross it with
silver – it needs only to grasp at the plastic –
you give them a ticket marking their immediate
What tender limbs has this hand persuaded into
How many brows has it tended unflinching
at times when, it was your breast you sought to
from the pain of nakedness
and now, with certain, distinct lines realised
an essential element of you embedded for all to
Does this hand still talk with two-fingers when
and are there times when it turns in on itself,
biting its flesh to bleeding point
holding back from stamping unreasoned authority.
Just what will this hand hold, what
wonders will it read,
will it still tingle cupped for rainwater?
The Experiment (or Outdoor Ex)
Calculated risk, we kissed, shrinking
Just what in heaven and earth, were we thinking
All we didn’t know of each other
Exploded in this cry for another
Our litmus-paper tongues entwined, blue
Our hearts hithertofore untried
Remembering nothing we wished untrue
Urge to know, a dream therefore died
We might as apathetic braves, persist
In dried and trussed adventure’s hide
Though this event, unthought, unfelt, unmiss
able in opening metaphors, unhinged
Sucking out all the marrow
Leaving a dry sound of science
(from a blushing pink to ascetic blue)
as a hollow graph charted our of course
It unfolded between our filmic flesh
And what should’ve taken us fervour than before
Reduced passing passions to prunes, a walnut
and a disfigured cherry
All withered and no wonder.
We should’ve tried it at home.
Let us now, together at last
Allow the grass to resume its standing
Sun-erect, unflattered by our grave bodies;
You rise, I raise myself once more,
fulfilling our nature, upright
after so many millennia having fallen
from the tree again with the gravity of knowledge
This is something we can still share in,
This unease in such untrying times.
Will you recall this datum
when next you wear
such a beautiful long white coat?
Incendiary glances just miss
showers of arrows have me a quiver
bullets agape, wingding off my head
and rounds of ratatatchatter have me ducking
Why did I, a chicken, cross no-man’s land
when meteors tear at my meagre surface;
I’m over the top, at war with myself
entrenched in inflammatory dreams
The hot-iron sears on my shoulder
other barbs inject their warm serum into my
poisoned flesh
and the scalding touch of an unwitting Samaritan
takes away so much of me on recoil

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