Poo Corner – Issue 25


Walking in Charlotte’s imagination, moored to reality

watching the sun dandle on Earth’s knee

before father’s glowering discipline calls us in.

I am a tourist superimposed on the landscape of souls

rolling and tumbling, embracing and chastising one another

through, in and of, love

the rocks collude in this wonderful doom, harbouring their entity

in a glorious playground with jagged, sharp teeth

they have lain, one body, upon this heath

then running from dogs of affectation being a passion without pity

he unbandaged her wild heart challenging cosmic powers from above

the smell of burning lace dowsed when the parsonage bell deeply tolls

legs and arms scratched, minds engorged with what we carry now within.



You rehearsed a play in which you died nightly

and too small curtains waived you off stage-left

I thought I’d learned the single art of absence

the fingers that changed me, once could change key

before stalling in dextrous oven gloves

cooking tally books to feed the needy

fumbling over jigsaws you couldn’t fathom

you were fine at the pieces with edges

and much too later, before the end, you

like us, couldn’t recognise the boxed picture

Around hospital corners did we call you mother?

a hug much too late like any other

when I stopped spinning, you were in a pickle,

left wondering just how another loves



The trick (when receiving) is imagining

it is from someone

and not no-one

and someone you know

rather than no-one you know.



Hearing the great Spike tenderly impaling my heart and mind

another voice wheedled its way into my thoughts, dragged in to the past

“Don’t listen to me, I can teach you nothing of childish laughter

only a morbid fear of a life of dying, I learned from someone near:

an intimate ignorance meant love is something I’d never find

and even friendships would be contingent and fade too fast

and a monument of failure would build tier upon tear

and, when others have left for vital there, I’d remain here, after.”

When did I begin to love the magic of disappearance and when did I grow to hate reality;

could have been when I got to know how when I appeared, there’s never any vitality,

when endeavouring a dialogue everything becomes a scene as if living is acting

making more exits than entrances, character-bound to enact dying without trying.

Sitting, writing about a love for her as what might have been

and a worthless, pointless fakery of a life; a death mercifully unseen.



Listening to a troubled genius, Spike

marvelling at the man’s heart and mind

trying to find common ground, where we are alike

happy and sad that we’re one of a kind

his inner child is such a source of joy

mine relives ignorant vacuity

in his troubles, sees a communicative buoy

mine a self-absorbed perpetuity

admiring his deeply felt funny arts

I lament my utter talentlessness

His multifarious and complex parts

contrast with my dismal simplistic mess

we laugh together when he’s talking crazy

we sob when a jackboot crushes a daisy



What is it I remember?

A shape appears unbidden,

it’s an outline of a very human body

drawn at the scene of my death

but it is most assuredly not me

A joyful sound reaches my heart

through fully recognised channels

but why this decomposition

why can’t it just be reminisced

I am tired of sadness,

forgetting the only hope

of something just shy

of contentment



The landscape is barren, naturally

there are no birds singing

no fish a-leaping

no cattle to low

and no deer gambolling:

I just didn’t realise

how reserved nature could

 really, naturally be