Poo Corner – Issue 21

ORIGINAL ARMY

Age-old skin, its lines and creases

making easier the folding necessary after use

only after the air of shallow breathing

maintaining a roundness of wisdom.

The ash in the tray no longer glistening

with signs of fire, though vital organs remember

a joy of elasticity, thoughts yearning, straining

to believe this present distance of exile

is significantly nearer than first meeting,

measuring, perhaps, a little of your reluctant

reflection on, perhaps, me.

Contractually creased for folding into a cubist

receptacle of anything but impressionist

ideas. A prison where files offering nothing

akin to escape tools are assembled in tedious

order. A mere repository for wasteful notions masquerading as imagination and a universe

reduced to 1.9 cubic feet of finite space.

TUG OF AWE

Needing to pull against foolish attraction two realities struggle for supremacy: the first manifest in genuine yearning and distractions felt inside; the second real impossibility embodied in the other’s attractiveness and indifference.

Feeling like an alchemist who is required to transform longing and desire into casual indifference, a would-be wild heartbeat, curtail a smile that would reveal too much, to eradicate signs of her presence inside and break cause and effect dynamics to once again hear only someone rather than her – it is sound that proves the hardest to conquer, to unlove her voice tests resolve to breaking, especially how listening increases admiration that established me as host.

The impulse is to resist loss of self, yet it is necessary to lose hope and, as a consequence, embrace the reality that truly connects two distant points in beautiful, inviolable indifference.

Two words oscillating, mixing and separating as desire wrestles with reason: to hear her by withdrawal of self, the singularity of a subject that once heard became object of desire beyond all reason, at least up to a point of impossible denial that translate hear into her and back again and the ‘a’ for apple was eaten in sinful self-indulgence.

Though I’ve been punished since, the cosmos has its diffuse revenge in teaching me the value of hear, never here, always only there, temporarily obscured by wanting something

never holistically existing.

 

POETRY WITH NONET

Woke up this morning looked round for train

think I got those commuter blues

waiting, busy, where and here

work, when will I get there

no talk, no knowing

more hours owing

sighs growing

now, train

move!

Sigh

of the

times behind

schedule for now

progress is later

than expected due to

cuts in service provision

to drive private wealth creation

but what of the public in all this?

Standing still unannounced, unmoved

how long must we wait for progress?

economic sentence starts

explaining a real world

that changes the same

no-one asks how

why less still

reason

none.

You

look down

on my heart

indifferent

necessarily

I look up at beauty

marvel at your sweet disdain

and love the way you pass through me

invulnerable to distraction.

 

Lines written in recollection of being stunned one glorious summer evening by her dressing up to the nines

I

don’t know

what love did

here in my heart

surreptitiously

inverting my reason

overturning despair’s truth

laying my soul bare to nonsense

crushing my bones with gorgeous contempt

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