Future Reminiscence

We reminisced
Like indistinctly
Separated lovers,
Carefully unwrapping
Other people’s memories,
Other people’s bliss.
Remember when our hair
Fashioned in newly shared
Romantic styles
With kanzashi propping
We would later forgive,
Shoppers made from glass
Reflecting the market
Would stare, open-mouthed
If to be so avant-garde
Lately had we dared.

Before we earned
Our contrasting directions
We understood much less,
There was no compendium
For the sentience
Of stones at the summit
Of mountains dressed
In red, and unexposed
To prejudice like silt’s
Accumulations
In gall bladders
And appendices,
Or the forty wars
They ordered, keeping
Us occupied long after
The conflicts and
Armaments
Had disappeared,
Parboiling three or
Four pandemics,
Six or seven daughters;
They mansplained
Impossible are
Any further losses,
Like fathers returning from
The Boer only to see
Their sons conscripted
In 1914. The reason
Stages are loved by
Adventists, confutators
And politicians,
The pamphleteers
And the musicians,
Teachers and priests,
Is there the congregations
Hear messages as though
Not for the masses
But for individuals
Directly injected,
A form of ancient
Alchemy. You always
Said tread carefully
Through the verbosity
Of men on podiums.
I did not know then
All that you meant,
But now, I understand
Suffering and love.

You honky-tonked
Your way through the blues
While we flirted through
Millennia, where
Unfulfilled
Prophesies
Of computer-generated
Apocalypses
Seem somehow preferable
To the hardships
Of being kept apart
From you. We endured
Obscene tortures
On our screens,
Aeroplanes burning,
Dossiers deserving
Nobel Prizes
For turning what existed
Into what did not,
Rainforests made way
For shampoo and
Doughnuts sprinkled
With hundreds
And thousands of years;
Forget-me-nots lost,
We tied a bonding knot
Where we might meet
And reminisce again,
Holding hands across
Our thoughts and the
Continuums
Of space and time,
Appalled by the myths
Brewing the next
Holocaust,
Fusing and feeding
The next apocalypse.

An Incident

Seven imposters stormed a plane,
Copilot diverting, I was captain in name,
So we headed instead for south-west Maine.

A life too fragile recognises,
Flashed several uneventful enterprises,
Designless thoughts, and magnetises;

“Why would young people now watch news
When it’s one more license to abuse,
A taxi-ride through a worldwide sluice.

Not from profitable schooling would we learn,
Taught of fires we could not burn,
Sometimes my whole body would discern

In every muscle sensations hurt,
Skin repealed and nerves subvert
Beneath a Pink Floyd t-shirt.

My favourite film I found, all comatose,
I turned to you, and said Time slows
Down, but if filmed today, who knows.

When comes my turn, I would impress
The difference for failure, and for success,
Is simply two degrees or less”.

The imposters fled the fuselage,
My frame was hoisted on a barge;
With nothing left, the doctors discharged.

 

Bildungsroman

This short lifelong, stayed terrified,
I skimmed my teeth and lost my mind;
The terror created by those outside,
But now I know there’s peace to find.

Leaders atop should pour kind profit,
And better times for people,
Yet my dictators dressed as prophets
And had the strong made feeble.

Those demons dressed as every-day folk,
Surveyed from a yellow soffit;
It’s the innocent who suffer most
On the road from Vectis to Moffat.

Through cataracts of oil they broke,
Dissolving bells in the spire;
Meadows choked, a flame awoke,
And set the forests on fire.

I looked at women in cages kept
By men who beat them for wages;
My eloquence lost to the internet,
Overdosed, I slept through the ages.

Protestors drove to the city,
Berating grey expansions,
When its placards versus tyranny
Suppressors sing in their mansions.

Next they stole my language,
Words once sweet as clover;
My father murdered at Sandwich,
Through Hastings dragged, and Dover.

My kidnapped son, he’d be handsome,
But I’ve not seen him for years;
Monthy I still pay the ransom,
And forget the feeling of tears.

The demons would turn those souls with tongs
Into rolls of garlicked black-pudding,
But should still a seed dispenser bring bird-songs,
I will burst out from my hooding.