Clay-faced figures
look from their living cells.
A wish for more daylight
is announced.
Bring it on
calls a dry overpopulated valley.
Curtains blur proceedings. Heads
on stalks stare obtrusively.
A politician speaks
ticking off his enemies
spotting the part-time agoraphobics
the nocturnal operators
now waking.
An owl pulls at the moon
and cages click open.
I step out with the street.
The “K” girls are doing great business.
The competition’s stiff.
On higher ground
the winners and losers never change.
The Message
The lady
occupies a bright space.
Comic strips of music
resonate the venue.
Another puff
clouds the birthplace
of a person numbered
on a plaque.
Another one bites the dust
The lady is
a tart is a tramp is a Santa Maria
wanting something profane to chew on.
She furnishes a niche for herself
amongst star clusters
dusting my living-room.
She stands in the unrolled torso of a condom
prayers running like condensation
down her face.
I’m not to blame … I’m not the one
spoiling the party.
The Balcony
Painted lines
criss-cross this universal playboy
of the PolynesIain world.
A strange masochism is at work
threading hot wires through veins
connecting me to him
to this epiphany in progress.
He compartmentalizes the morning
inhabits a caption written for him
for a picture
of his maidservant her dog her cat.
He explores by touch
strips of sunlight draped over a balcony.
He’s neither soldier
sailor butcher
but carries a helmet for his journey.
From the balcony
blunted-blue agapanthus
choke in numbers.
Copyright © Iain Britton, 2010.
|
