SATURDAY AFTERNOON AT WHITELEY'S

Rainy back-street anywhere.

Doorbell rings in a house

            where nothing lives

mute pigment screams

froze in reverent silence.

Sharks hunt naked couples

upstairs where

the artist breathed a funnel-web

            preserved in glass. At this

velvet rope funeral march

the heroin clock drips

minutes like wax;

we soak in impressions of Bondi.

Outside the rain has stopped. Smoking

            we preserve time;

a backward glance

an artist’s life

a paperweight

the spider.

OF BABYLON WHERE WE SAT

—     ...How can we sing the LORD’s song

in a strange land?

Deckchair on penthouse patio

drink on terracotta, cigarette

        butts rain fire on

the wasteland below;

perched on this obelisk

stars our jewelled ceiling

it’s easy believing we can

turn our backs on Gomorrah. But

in the evenings others —

dealers — hookers — junkies — bums

follow us home

ransack our sleep

loiter in doorways and back-alleys

        in our minds:

ash our tower is built on;

face of our salt-pillar shadow.

(G)LISTEN

I

saw hurt

hate — love — loss

cruelty — pleasure — fear

quiver in the corner of your

      eye,

run

down

you

LETHEAN BAPTISM

Let go.

Swept down sadness

                      madness

washes all away.

Cold running panic all

is deadwood

drifting

out of reach.

Roll with it

rushing over

beds and bones.

Alone.

Accept.

The river

                    leads

                                 you

                                           home.

ENDINGS

Threads entwine

               by chance their

cord loops ‘round some

brief but stable

point

           in time then

                                 off again

                  to

fray.

No neat knot no

happy endings;

only endings.

             

CAUSES HEART DISEASE

                        And what is love? It is a doll dressed up

                        For idleness to cosset, nurse, and dandle;

                        A thing of soft misnomers...

—    John Keats

Twisted in a meat-grinder

or crushed under a steamroller

even love looks good.

Attachment grows

      a tumour while

connexion desiccates

a cigarette forgot in an ashtray.

Life is a packet.

Keep lighting them ‘till they kill you

or the last one’s burned away.

STRUTTING AND FRETTING - A Dramatic Irony

Why do some crave

solitude, lone among

anonymous chatter quiet

prepare death a reception?

Cursed by thought life is

a movie seen a thousand times:

washed-out actors inexorable march,

clichéd conflicts, banal resolutions

written – directed — produced.

The players, immersed

search for their credits, existence

on screen.

It’s easy to be a critic; pass the popcorn.

Ignorance is bliss.