Andrew defies
any teacher, family, friend, professor
who tries to teach him left and right.
You see he knows that when we point out to his left,
it’s to his right – he’s certain, sure, - no use
to fight belief because we all become confused
and so we start to side with him, agree,
deranged, that left is right and right is left.
But if left were right, what would be left,
would blue be red and grey be white
and up be down if left were right?
Hokey Cokey, left arm in. All right?
From above,
the pen is unmoving, turquoise and pointed,
an arrow unflown with a clip to connect.
From above,
the point is right at me, accusing, unfaithful,
brassy and linked to a sauce deep within.
From above,
the far end’s a button, a little snow pillar
or a cigarette butt-end that longs to be licked.
From above,
the colour is ocean, a dazzle, a dayglo,
so bright that a seagull or finger attacks.
From above,
when I get closer, inside is a capsule,
chilly as cuttlefish, sugar or salt.
When I take hold,
the pen is a river, silently swerving
divisions of potency, power full stop.
It was a party like no other,
a one man show, ‘Red Peter’
custom-built from a Kafka
tour-de-force, with cage, bananas, music.
All about a captured monkey transforming
to a music hall performer
mimicking humans, aping, with a
glimpse of human history, of our animal nature.
Way-too-close for comfort, reaching into
mucus, excrement, hair and fleas,
primate torture, tension, change, adaption:
the very smell of ‘human’.
I guess quite close to monkey business
and, though the guests applauded loudly,
they muttered ‘Not right for a party!’,
‘Quite unsuitable when you’re sober!’
but Kafka turned and looked steadfast
into a mirror, reckoned to attack
his beard, his tresses, neck, by shaving
here and there, down there, out there and back.
Today I saw heather bounty
illuminate a folded moor
with purple promise, shimmering.
I passed along and left it there,
yomping, yakking on
like when a day is finished up;
a day when treasure hangs around
in clusters, azure, jokes, in folks
but sleepy dreamers miss it mostly,
gaze up at the moon.
After dinner, Andrew sits on the floor and belts
out notes – off key - from well known power ballads
tilting me back to early family parties
and recent business meetings when I could
and did express my tension, truth or beauty, disregarding.
Then his clamorous song stirs up a heavy
chest, my cave of mouth to a vinegar taste
and tears all dammed with clubby fingers
clenched for every time I couldn’t, didn’t
howl because he's singing out, because he can.
glint, hanging after rain;
something, nothing, fruit ahead of winter.
Blackberries shine ; look in wonderment
at a little business maybe concerning, or
not concerning, passers by
in conflict ‘do I - don’t I - want to
pick and eat a multi faceted fruit,
this burst of life as life potential?’
Blackberries will fall; not as victims,
not blessedly,
heroically, or even humanly
but now they shine in Autumn as their time and
blackberries turn a little in the wind,
impregnating optic nerves by dancing – no –
such a thought is crazy, silly,
weird, a human fantasy
but blackberries…
