I turn to wake up

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the e-mail that clanked dank in my heart
                the report I hadn’t written
                                for so long, for Emily
[her future all depends on it, poor Emily, she is so innocent and so pretty she deserves all the future she can get and You are neglecting her of it with your own languid longevity] but I will

                                NOT be responsible for future lives
                when I am ill from the presumption which doesn’t let me
even crap in private outside my own backdoor pan-in-the-yard
                they have called for me at my front door
                                with the brusqueness of a uniform
                                                with the presumption of amoral (sic)
                                                                even here
                                                the uniform and the outside toilet in my own house:                
                the humiliation could not be more complete so
I pull the hood of my dressing gown over my head
                and sink out of the dream

                                This Will Not Be

                                                I rouse Carol from
                                                                her own dream
                                                and drift somewhat back to …
                                … pupils all around the street
                                                they
                                                should
                                                not be
                                                there but only I
                of all the teachers in my front room
go out to front and tell them –
                command of my righteousness –
                                that they should not be there they should be BEHIND the house
                                                behind the house
                                but they turn languid
                and run round the corner down the street, they know
they don’t have to listen to me and
                I am powerless because
                                I am ill

                                I am so fed up with this
                                                I turn myself to wake up
                                                                I turn to wake up

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

breakdown wormhole: slow enough / to have love
Carol wormhole: St. Mark’s flies flagpole upwards / with the forelegs hanging down obscene / reaching some height blindly to connect / out from the long-stalk tri-separating up- / to-seeded rounds of pod like acacia what / is it called “‘hogweed’ I-don’t-know- / what-it’s-called-but-goats-love-it-and- / it-makes-them-burp-a-lot”
doors & life wormhole: every step I take
dream wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
Hillside wormhole: tag cloud poem IX – haiku is awkward / the more that is left in / like uncombed hair
identity wormhole: dear Lucy
managerialism wormhole: ‘let them slide off …’
power wormhole: that comicbookshop … // … in dreams
sound & streets wormhole: while
teaching wormhole: dream I // dream II
time wormhole: this time

 

the sitting room

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                the sitting room

                                in the early evening –
                                                tired and sprangled – I
                notice the pattern of the carpet
                                soothing as a deep mint-green boiled
                                                sweet

                                                that I
                                might have looked through
                                                for quite a while
                before holding it in my cheek as I shuffled about
                                swallowing occasionally
                                                in remembrance and velvet texture

                                                and after so much anxiety
                                of effect and agent
                far outside the windows of the room, it was
                                                                good to be
                                                                back home

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

anxiety wormhole: too much in arrival
being wormhole: work
carpet wormhole: languidly close the portal
evening wormhole: lesson from watching two crane flies work the evening / skating across the panes flying and pushing legs grappling / the glass crossing repulsive over themselves and clinging akimbo / for a rest until lifeless just to get their stickly bodies through to the light
green wormhole: where else
looking wormhole: just
sitting room wormhole: Michael Redford: triptych
windows wormhole: dream I // dream II

 

work

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                                                                work

                                nothing to do
                                all day but

                be

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

being wormhole: being / doing
doing wormhole: time
living wormhole: I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation
work wormhole: slow enough / to have love

 

dear Lucy

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                dear Lucy

I would like to order some more of that mixture you made for me
could I have a bigger bottle

I think I’m noticing I walk about
with a slight smile in my heart

(although it easily turns to a grimace when I try to ‘put’ myself into the groove
and find myself not being there)

I think I slip some of those things that snag, or even when ‘snagged’ I don’t
dangle and I certainly won’t add to the soap-script

my sitting is no better, I still teeter all around ‘just’ sitting
but I think I am cusping

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

attention wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
identity wormhole: this time
sitting wormhole: tragic and archival
smile wormhole: bud
walking wormhole: and I lose sight of her into memory

 

this                time

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                this                time

                in the back seat
                driven by Dot
                houses through trees
                open fields turning

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

Charlotte wormhole: love and precision
identity & time wormhole: dream I // dream II
openness wormhole: such such potential
passing wormhole: pass and / fro
trees wormhole: a nice grey woollen picnic blanket

 

just

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                just

                                crouching
                from mid-morning until gathering dusk
                                not moving
                                                drying
looking deep across the meadow with no boundaries but the mountains
                into the horse’s eyes who
                                just doesn’t
                                                run
                                                free

 

film: ‘The Horse Whisperer’, 1998

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

eyes wormhole: free
film wormhole: divergent // direction
looking wormhole: dream I // dream II
morning wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
waiting wormhole: I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation

 

dream I // dream II

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          dream I

    I had to get to school
    from the college halls
    in a town I didn’t know
    or what I was doing there

    I was already late
    but making my way
    past blue window reflections
    on honeycomb tarmac

    I realised I was going the
    wrong way up a hill people looking
    at me in my teacher’s clothes they
    knew the school is not here

    I am in an area I do not know
    so I go back down the hill
    trying to show that I know
    what I am doing I can see

    the whole town spread out
    like a city the different areas
    the school is there somewhere
    and I need to get myself there

and yet woken up now I’m not so sure I do

          dream II

    my chance to teach
    I explain everything

with little clever phrases like poems
    but each time

    I have to explain yet further
    taking hours, not

    holding them I gave of my
    of my own experience but it wasn’t

    theirs, they started leaving
    before I could conclude

retired now I’m not sure I ever arrived

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

blue wormhole: pass and / fro
giving wormhole: six paramitas
identity wormhole: I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation
looking wormhole: over-pink cagoule
people wormhole: memorial
retirement wormhole: Virginia
school wormhole: step
teaching wormhole: make your rickety / constructs strong with / unbending grids / of attention and wide- / open grates of let
time wormhole: tragic and archival
windows wormhole: windows // and balconies

 

`heads up …!

I’ve actually been busier than my lack of posting might suggest.

I’ve published two pages today which I’ve been working on for awhile, and I’m not sure if they come up on peoples’ readers if they’re pages; so I’ll plug them here:

first up: Spring Warwick breezes / over Bacharach fieldwork and boroughs with / the occasional shift and chirp of David / in the pastel-long morning of the sixties: yes, a celebration of Dionne Warwich and Burth Bacharach, but also a rendering of their music as the emotional wall-paper of my 1960s as I grew up from two years old in 1962 until my eighth birthday on November 2nd 1967 when my father left our family, and my survival as I gradually learnt to emerge from childhood and am not entirely sure I was successful; anyway Dionne Warwick’s voice kept sustaining and lingering on the radio and Burt Bacharch’s skippy syncopation kept suggesting there were other mornings over the horizon

secondly: Chapter 7 is … chapter 7 of what I’ve been working on in my retirement; the rest, and the beginning, will come around as I complete the current cycle and resume the next; I’ll be publishing a preface soon when it will all make slightly more sense …

pass and / fro

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                still-wet paviours from the storms
                      packed
                      car-park
                      and the
                      constant
                      pass and
                      fro of
                      want
                all under the blue blue skies

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

blue wormhole: St. Mark’s flies flagpole upwards / with the forelegs hanging down obscene / reaching some height blindly to connect / out from the long-stalk tri-separating up- / to-seeded rounds of pod like acacia what / is it called “‘hogweed’ I-don’t-know- / what-it’s-called-but-goats-love-it-and- / it-makes-them-burp-a-lot”
Have wormhole: written relief to / creeping anaesthesia / through palimpsest / and crankled page
passing wormhole: and I lose sight of her into memory
sky wormhole: Infantino / district of Gotham
storm wormhole: “Darling” – poewieview #28

 

tragic and archival

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                      so

                      after months,
                      even years

                      of sitting
                      and feeling

                      I have achieved
                      some coagulation

                      set and
                      solid-enough

                      to make along
                      a country road

                      I can still
                      get caught

                      by the ‘tut’
                      to a wrong turn

                      tragic and archival
                      which takes

                      the best part
                      of fifty miles

                      and a change
                      of scene to

                      stand down
                      and move on

 

 

 

————w(O)rmholes________________________________|—–

history wormhole: wakeoutofadream
sitting wormhole: I keep / waiting to be discovered and get lost in anticipation
time wormhole: time
travelling wormhole: written relief to / creeping anaesthesia / through palimpsest / and crankled page
years wormhole: 1968