Days Gone By

 

 

Androgynous, ambivalent:

this perpetual twist-shifting, down the chapel

on a polluted October blustering impossible morning...

 

She condenses all thought, all feeling, into similes

like butterflies caught in a web of clichés -

it’s easier that way.

 

            Albert walks meandering thru’ W12, proud as

cactus hairs, a twine of Verlaine in his cock pocket:

prole voice pole-vaulted thru distant clouds

but he has never seen one up close –

airplanes, cocktails and dark sentiments don’t mix: 

 

Albert is a man

with his feet on the ground.

 

                                                Anodyne & alert

                                                she sucks his dull prick

 

The penis, a hairless cactus plant

in the desert of her lonesome old soul.

 

But the poetry of penetration is a complex issue

and the rubbing of dry tissue,

a mere catharsis

and Albert,

a man with his feet on the ground.

 

*          *          *          *

 

in algeria, on a clapped out remington rand,

with syphilitic ten year old boys

lounging about in his back yard,

he explored a netherworld

his beatnik friends only dreamed of...

 

but that was way back when

before the shepherd’s bush

of altered realities

shrunk into flatline banality

 

*          *          *          *

 

In the cloisters of 49 Adelaide Grove,

after the short dark walk from White City,

he enters her: a stranger, an envoy,

a messenger; he reads aloud

passages from People’s Friend,

rocks her to sleep with his laughter.

 

Drifting off,

on the magic carpet of her laptop,

he calculates

the days gone by.

 

There

in the clock gland,

in the clenched fingers of his right hand.

 

Sometimes he imagines

the spectre of Edward Munch

painting a giant vampiric cunt:

the image makes him smile,

even though

 

he is dried out, desiccated -

a misanthrope

hung by his own rope.

 

            She smiles into her knitting

            and he is compliant,

            silent tap tapping

            on her laptop,

                        a spew of words,

                        a senescent recalling

                        of these days gone by.

 

*          *          *          *

 

algeria is a dream of dark red blood:

mirrors speak of

            vulvas and vestibules,

            labyrinths and monsters.

 

she winds the clock, but not back.

peeling away labial lips

she smiles,

like a score of young sun browned boys.

 

*          *          *          *

 

And then they are a fusion of cock and cunt,

an extinguishing of all distinction.

Into nothingness they fall,

clutching

each to each other.

 

 

And then there is that insistent voice,

throwing questions at your feet:

 

What flowers express

days gone by?

 

And you know the answer:

it’s as clear as a Fassbinder film -

 

Lilies,

white lilies.

 

*          *          *          *

 

Hands soft as bread,

Albert walks thru’ a monochrome forest.

He arrives at a clearing

and e-mailed to him

in crystal clear chromatic colour

is a Jpeg file of a florist shop

spilling over with white lilies

 

and attached to them:

the love note he never wrote,

which he had hoped would express...

days gone by.

 

 

                                                                       

 

 

 

 

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