Friday, January 16, 2009

blow rag

The feet of summer dabble
In their coiling calm and slow—W.B. Yeats

of that shandyan distortion
of the homunculus
aha and oho, as so:

my mother didn't stop the sex
to announce clocktime
like that oh no

she just shoved some simulacrum
under the old man
sidled outta there just so

to sit out in the roses
watching the cats
for all I know

took him years to notice
then he came out angry
killing birds with his blow

she just sat as stone
crumbling by the river
dropping in soft & slow

rushing away bits at a time
till all was rags on a weir
oh no, oh no

him picking through them
shouting loud love
growling yes and... no

till good thing too
was the river suck him down
& out to the overflow

which some of us
clinched was a mercy
yo yo we go

last anyone saw
was one leg and a beard
going fast her barbèd beau

furious in his last joke
ho ho, ho ho

she never lifted out
but the river I guess sang
in its midnight glow

yay all there was
river and some rags
far away shouts to and fro

you live through these things
O and suddenly
and then they go

I wear a tall hat now in honour
of being one of those
now in the know

so let us endeavour
down in the tubes
most fervently to blow blow blow

this my favourite bird
the murderous crarking oracle
of a midnight walking crow

now i really got to
happy to know
I guess
so so

(Published in the Burning Gorgeous anthology 2010)

1 comment:

Deb said...


Those of us who know, blow blow blow.

I found this poem tragically real.