Saturday 24 December 2011

SILENT CARTOON OF LATER IS

and shopping is;

£2 2 litre cider is
20cl Chekhov £2.95 is

my saddle burr my shopping is

and when 2 squat glasses are stuffed silly with ice
and when I drench them down my one hole mouth
then
in the towel blasted bathroom world
the invisible mirror
gives me a frontage, a final face
staring off behind me
still wary of pm wolves and bears.

and later is;

later is tight-caught like twig thorns in wool sleeves

later is
when I am covered all comfy in sugar soft clothes
when all the black
dust and fluff
cling to them, to me
when watching Touch Of Evil drinking
the b&w human-fat detective,
the film,
gives me story, sunny visible prose.

later is a school-night fish
wet and silent, swum clean.

and when strong solid coffee salvation
is fading like freckles in fierce sun
cheap booze
replaces
my snake pale legs
and monolithic broken loudspeakers
and when they are all staring at me in this pm damp room
without even chill kitchen radio creeping in here.
then I stare
with diamond-tired orbs
at the left space where
once
or twice
suddenly rested and soft and quietly talking
in ninja black or after-work jeans
sat sitting buddha still and bravely smiling
a gentle Irish nurse of candy swearing
small puppy-wet palms
round black-eyed frowns
that disappear like only children

and later is what night is
what mad saddle burr shopping is

and later is
when I know building work is needed here
a fast shoring up
and hasty plastering over
on my ripe empty-bottle husk
 
and later is
when I see my short hot life a slow bakers dough . . .

but!

later also is
when I am only up for total nothing tonight
no prowling art
no human fire

later now is
some reassuring black packet over-the-counter thrill-dull
is
sleeping with no-human-one
to strangle-hug myself to sleep on
with too few pillows allowed for my head on

but later also is
when I suddenly rise from van talk radio
and barge into the brutal fridge again

and later still is where night is
when the jazz silent cartoon on the slab TV
and the loud hipping hep hop out the living stereo
fundamentally CONSPIRE
to trip pop me over
inside the living room rug trap
and
down, slurped onto the carpets floor.

night is what late is;
when I have become colossal, a Character
in a half dreamed film noir,
some blue and incidental fucker
a TV footnote metal on a A4 clipboard

later is
when dream writing a novel on the last booze
when night-shift alone, sick of sunrise
when god-myth glorious
in a rainbow slick oil bubble,
unpaid and acting
is when a rubbish blackout will come.

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