I have not veered outside
A million years or more;
From my fears I’m fossilized,
From my fears left sore.
To see another prophet’s side,
I wonder of life’s stores,
And in that wonder there I find
A comfort in his chores.
Forgetting how my compass broke,
My baseless bread less leaven,
From aspic see his amber glow
And know I just missed heaven.
It was akin to striking him
With stage fright, imprisoning
His freedom of speech
Just like Carlotta the Parisienne;
A toad in his throat, sand-snakes
Under his skin, the imposter
Fluffed and fumbled his lines
From a script which was written
At the same time, instantaneously,
As he seized at air and gasped
Within the choke-hold grip of life.
Impositions are the maestro’s delight,
To see a man stumble in fright and
Mortified by audiences hidden
In the stalls and boxes and gods.
The first time, the God of Humiliation
Aided and abetted their captivity
By shoving him forwards naked;
The baying socialites paid for the sight
With old-fashioned notes and pennies:
Registrars and midwives, anaethetists,
Many of whom died in later times
And were themselves untrained and naked
When pushed out again, memory-wiped,
On to that self-same stage on
A distant fatherless Friday night.
My body is a hotch-potch cobbling
Of artefacts unique and yet
Strange ambivilant occupants
And oblivious as pebbles
Compacted violently inside me.
Food groups brew in the
Iron cauldrons of my organs
To form the seven moods –
Cauliflower’s gristle in my pancreas
And broccoli for my spleen,
Bulbourethral glands steal
Calcium converted to
Fool’s gold, such colours
Inside me remain untold,
Like ambergris in my heart
Which every morning restarts
Despite my protestations,
Despite the actor’s appeals
He fossilized with poetic arts,
And named that poem DNR.