Sunday, June 25, 2017

I'll never be the President of France

I wanted to be
some sort of Poesy
but look dans mes mains
they have colluded with the sky
and in the future when people ask
I will have to say
it was all about
an eye for an eye
I cry you cry
and the faithless gone travelling
without hope into the void
growing into the emergency
a big daddy to make things better
how did they manage to hold back?
I was too easy a target for them
a painted figurine
upset by the golf connexion
a millennial, come to collect the game
grey haired and limbs locking loosely together
the forest fire human being
grey smoke rising from the temples
limbering up the mountains
                         in a polar fleece jacket
public attitude like a derailment
when i come to you I am not really myself
but that is how the train feels
going ito the tunnel
none of this makes sense.

In the future everyone will know
will know what it is to be me
they will ladle me like soup
good honest broth
chop with cleavers through my bones
portion me out
dice my heart
this will be good
if there is marrow in it
it makes good stock
this is the old advice
it can't be changed
by some new novelty
a crash course in life
—predicts—to be fair
I have not lived enough
it is better to wait
till the end of the show
to write a review.

Jeremy Corbyn reads Shelley
in the chapel
into the microphone
courses Shelly's voice
like a cold mountain stream
like a Hymn
like the blood of humanity
animating through time
all the hundreds of moments
when the heart stopped
and skipped a rhyme

4am 8.6.2017