#344 - deadweight

 

11.xii.20

344

deadweight

 

tragedy, farce

(a riff on the Eighteenth Brumaire)

 

seven billion of us

(animals of ilk I mean)

 

one hundred billion haunt

give or take and soil themselves

or smoke

 

make destiny

never where when choosing

 

old rose whiff in the garden goes

(breath enters and so live)

 

as much as my dispersal

‘that it will perish’

how otherwise?

awakening – prophecy!

 

echo and all the way

words through me

I’m the arrowfall              

 

(time-honoured disguise

this idiom borrowed)

 

of course  not the only compost

but

how to unhaunt?

 

some will say wait till the end of days

take a bow then

others tell you insect after

if deserved

and round you go

could yet be king

 

who does the watching over the cradle?

there’s a good ghost and glorify

make mantle

time to topple still

 

let’s flesh out own superstition

beginners are always translating back

 

bone up on

brinking and still

 

live in a house of who thought up walls?

head under how long?

there isn’t a word to seal

but

last dance saved

for that ache in the deep

and down, down

way beyond the bones