Posts tagged ‘The Things’

18/08/2013

Object No.5 – Flat Pack

 

 

We’d join the meteorites of life:

The points of light, the dying tails.

The “thing” and then the “consequence”,

The reasons why it might make sense.

 

Each move we’d make we’d need some more:

Another shelf, another chair,

Another clothes rail for the shirts,

Another crater for our hopes.

 

We’d join the panels, find the slots,

The pins and dowels, the creaking locks.

Then gravity would pull them in:

Our fallen stars, our lifetime’s things.

 

The drawers might stick, the mirrors crack,

And once they’ve gone, there’s no way back.

 

 

Advertisements
17/08/2013

Object No.4 – Pot of Basil

 

An ordinary world of light,

A luminescent line in time,

I’d walk along and breathe along,

And perhaps forget to look and know.

 

Forget to hear the questions posed,

Forget to smell the basil plants,

Forget my time perhaps would end:

So sad I’d leave those things unsaid.

 

Around that pot pasts might adhere.

All through the room of light so strong,

A trace was strong, a life was long,

An ordinary world was lost.

 

The basil scent would linger here,

You’d sense my echoes through your fear.

 

17/08/2013

Object No.3 – Box File

 

I’d set its flawed trajectory

On shelves in dust and broken trust,

In New Town where I’d left the clues

And lived on loneliness and lust.

 

I’d bury all its sorrows deep,

Escape and wander through Kings Cross,

Through London’s raging, aching streets,

Through hotel rooms booked by the hour.

 

I’d fall again and jump the Strid,

Leave echo patterns on its shelves,

Take on the shadows it had made,

And mark regret upon its lid.

 

Within that air of many pasts,

Pathetic proofs that nothing lasts.

 

16/08/2013

Object No.2 – Soap Stone Monkeys

 

The tins of peaches, tins of cream,

All stirred with sugar, served with juice,

Shot through with North Sea gas and war,

With woodsheds, polish and despair.

 

There could have been the three wise apes.

They’d sit beside that music box,

Where Maurice Jarre and Pasternak

Were lost amongst the jewelry paste.

 

And off downstairs, the TV times

Would bring the wrestling, bring the scores,

And pools results and solemn prayers,

Before the pier-end sing-alongs.

 

Those three wise apes would see it all,

They’d hear, then chant their soap stone curse.