from swerve of shaw to bend of bray

(On March 15th 20118, I was two days away from the delirium of sepsis (i was gone for a week) and I wrote this poem.The sort of premonition you don't need, or want!)

“In the name of Annah the Allmaziful, the Everliving, the Bringer of Plurabilities, haloed be her eve, her singtime sung, her rill be run, unhemmed as it is uneven!”
― James Joyce, Finnegans Wake*

catch my death, damp

it's an English disease

travelling from heat to cold

the melody's the same

runs, rills through culture, religion, sexual orientation,

trans-this-sans-that

mealy-mouthed middle-stump moaning means nothing to me.

people volunteer to eat shit,, eat, shit, they do,

just like that, they're that stupid,

put a gun in his hands

whatta yer got?

a funny hat

no smiles, no men o’pause, just the bare necessities::

freeze, knees, groan, be, alone

I say these words into this barely-mystic air

that is always, and forever, everywhere.

we see through this bare air and miss everything.

Like in one of Solz’s gulags, it’s a European thing,

every songbird says,

get the wrong signs, get so quickly out of line,

a triangle appears, an equation

-b + or — sq root of b2–4ac/2b

 just one way to pray.

a guilt for my best friend

world without end,

keep him warm, in his grave.

nothing stops this inclement shivering inside

by all means, there’s worse to come,

sans teeth, sans fun, sans everything.

◄ Tempered in the fire

COVID 19 and the BLACKBIRD ►

Comments

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John Marks

Sat 14th Mar 2020 11:57

Thank you, as ever, dear Cathy.

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Vautaw

Sat 14th Mar 2020 01:59

The soul knows what conscious denies. Powerful poem John. So glad you lived to share your tales. We are all the more enlightened for it. Write on!

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