Tag Archives: time

Untitled *Biopic Poem (Draft)

Video tape is
black under music,
shut out from playing fields,
working behind its plastic window.

Soil segmentations are
aerated by earthworms,
next to pinned
flags of the world.

A cut of Schindler’s List for schools,
shook us behind our desks
in a room with
pencil crayon atlases.

I caught your biopic
by luck, in the cast net of stars,
flicking through satellites, stations,
happy enough without pause
to be embarrassed for them now,

because what a hold our new self-images had,
not yours I noticed, the beyond-wise (or a bit mad)
escaped their young shadows.

The lesson differently pieced together by everyone,
who is ever going to learn the role that
fumbled then crushed dialogue
once played in sweetly stupid

At a paranoid pitch, too,
making molecular
wildness inside
tone-blind to what feelings
seemed to scream.

I passed through an obsolete sleep
into days that test me more,
sure that you were a movie star –

what significance might be best asked of
the miscast stars I dreamt for us,
their celebrity easier
wound back for memory
than innocent as wax torches
held to faces we don’t have.

But I forget the horror of each
awkward hallway
shivering in bones,
bodies jostling for steps on stairs,
and names called to be heard.

I’ve yet to label my working title
in a smudged, thick,
left-handed daub

and almost yours,
wise and tall,
joined up and circled Disney dots to i’s of yours,
remembered only just but like
ice cream in a cone,
clever and kind,
and you would put up with
this nonsense – and more

bursting through in spits

and I remember a bit about
my better double in History.


Not Particularly.

The dust always settles,
as they say,
upon the floor.

when it does,
an underpowered speaker
plays Syd Barrett.

Cricket noises and chirps
cause the room to vibrate under us,

and as softly as we talk,
my ears grind to a shell.

My favourite song has ruined them –
I finish off the crumbs
of a necessary pie,
because there is less time for madness.

We play with titles;
you call me “Monsignor”.

We throw our cards about,
like the others.

My Queen reads Edward Lear’s limericks aloud.
“To laugh or to cry?”
is a question,
when she asks it.

I remember the blue light
before my bad dreams
as a child.

I could play another with ease,
but today I pull no tricks.

Suppose that cricket underneath us
turns a wheel?

While painters of a certain school
pack up their things
in satisfaction –

the half-stolen silverware
from each other’s apartments
is silver-tongued;
and it discusses

the tree branch outside.
A lizard greets the ground.

The lizard forgets
the branch that…

it slipped again,
and slipped once more.

In the afterlife,
there’s plenty of china.

A cat meets him at the station,
with a parasol.

It must have been a rainy night
in the garden.

The glow of home,
its invisible friends
call the creature.

The chameleon
makes like a new barometer
for the snowflakes and swirls
that distract it from
the telephone.

Showers. Good. –
The shipping broadcast
gets it right every time
because there is no wind
in space.

Poured Over Coffee.

We are waiting on a man to come and fix the grandfather clock in the hall, next to the table with the phonebook and the scribbled unfinished notes from an unfinished conversation with a man on the phone.

He rang to say he cannot make it – I think it was this morning – because he himself is a grandfather and he is sick and wants to spend more time with his sickness and his grandchildren.  We are expecting him later now, though we cannot be expected to know when later is, because the clock is unpredictable. Sometimes it will chime every minute instead of every hour.

Furthermore, I sense that The Hare is troubled. His mutterings have become more frequent. Now, roughly every 10th word he thinks will be expressed as actual speech, and the words he chooses have begun to unnerve me.

Grandfather clock maintenance requires wisdom, not words.  A person’s suitability for the job can sometimes be measured by the wrinkles on his or her face. This is such a well-known fact that it almost borders on cliché.  Right now, The Hare is wishing he didn’t talk so much.

I told the old guy, from whom we are expecting a visit, that we spend most of our time drinking coffee and eating substandard dinners from packets. In return, he offered us a story about a War which is apparently so infamous it does not need a name and is known simply as The War, even though there have been many, not to mention those occurring right this moment in my living room.

The Hare is preparing for the wars he thinks are yet to come, whereas I wish they would hurry up, for want of something better to do. This is the nature of our conflict. I wish the man who is coming to fix the clock was here now, fixing it. The Hare should live with time and not words for time, like “minutes”, “hours” and “days”. I am not making sense; he would articulate it better himself if he was all here. Sadly, he is matching into the wallpaper, and the breakfast cereal, and the coffee and, for the first time ever, his dreams about nothing.

It shouldn’t be like this on my Birthday. It is not my Birthday today; if it was I would tell you. But on my birthday, I will have a Super Mario Bros. cake, for a sense of semi-ironic nostalgia. Everybody reading this will send me presents. Everybody will be invited to our living quarters, where a ceasefire will be arranged for the occasion. I will allow all my friends to light up indoors, even though there is a new law against it.

The Hare lives for Birthdays and Christmases. The rest is unlabelled time which should, I suppose, be a glorious thing.

Continue reading Poured Over Coffee.


Like the time
I fell backwards
to hit my head in the museum –

I still dislike seeing dead things
reproduced for my amusement.

I stopped crying for the old man,
thankful for his understanding,
and the tears commenced again
as soon as he left.

A child’s education
is seeing a corpse inside a
glass case.

An adult’s education
is facing Death
writ on the ceiling.

The search for a seam
between this sky
and another,
will spin me anti-clockwise,
I look for spaceships.

The tragedy of the dodo is
that it was naïve,
perhaps well-meaning.

But I can not read the minds of these stuffed birds
which fill the room.