The old woman behind the counter of stopped
watches and tin trinkets is full of smiles when he comes in the door. Her granddaughter ignores him. She wants to know when they can go home. Not till they’ve taken a little bit more
money, dear, is when. The charity shop
smells of steam and age. He squeezes
past the clothes rails and toward the coffee table, its surface kept clear. Twenty five pounds a taped note says, no
negotiating. Its wooden legs are
battered and someone has scribbled all over the underside in blue pen. The top is dated red and brown swirls edged
in still shining chrome.
The woman is thrilled when he says he’ll take
it and tells him it should clean up well.
Her granddaughter bounces up and down asking if they can home now. Not yet they can’t. He carries it outside rests it against a
black bin warped by fire. Taking out his
phone he wonders who he can ring for a lift.
upright like men on flat rooftops or slanty slates/the end of the road behind parked hatchbacks/in the park in the shadows of innocent trees/ on a playtime grassy hill/the old stone of the church tower always at a distance Pig Sentinels LOOKING my way as i go about my bland town business they are without expression/as far as i can tell silent and still naked - or in trousers? maybe some were in trousers black office slacks this is dream of course but when i wake and its still dark despite science and architecture and the sane wire technically whirring/mainly functional in my mind i FEEL in my ANIMAL GUTS and lost senses that it is entirely likely/possible/even essential that Pig Sentinels stand in the night yard in one or twos or wait in the hallway behind the bedroom door LOOKING! oink
i wonder who i am she says dragging on a long white cigarette which hat you got on? i say rolling a fag or you posing a deeper question? not hats she says eyes on the distant fields ploughed into straight yellow lines i wonder it a lot and you know what? there isnt an answer this answer pleases me - in silence we smoke pondering gazing at the farmers patterns
we're smoking outside hosp break time she's in theatre blues hair hidden which brings out her eyes shining with a 1000 years of bright intelligence i keep up just thru the deep coast fog and hot wire of adrenalin and insomnia i say 'in my garden the other month whenever last year, i dont know, i thought i should stop smoking just so i could enjoy the summer beauty of my bursting garden a little longer, so quiet but not creepy quiet, not end of the world silence you understand but comfortable and then i thought about how much i enjoy smoking in my beautiful garden, it was a quandary, first time i used that word ever i think, by the way, a QUANDARY, a circular thought puzzle to ponder, ideally while smoking' and she says 'thats poetry' and i make it so
even when i'm not reading because the day is uncomfortable as crabs and nothing will suitably engage or smile or entertain and i sit still as statues/stuck by science to simple wooden kitchen chairs and the huge turning hurtling heft of the world its very IMPORTANT/headline crucial to have gentle piles and stacks and broken spine columns of BOOOOKS! all around quiet/undemanding patiently holding safe and linear reality dreams and sane disorder - EXPOSING time and tricks chaos filed on trial i'll lay a hand on their gospel like i'm evidence and promise never to properly lie
into the Valley of Dearth rode the gallant bored hundreds books in their breasts bursting behind bones forward Werd Army! onto the da vinci shades of twilight airport doorsteps and call nothing - no werds or sentence fallen - a MISTAKE! tube train fodder to the left of them rejection letters filed to the right them into the Valley of Dearth rode six hundred hungry writers happy to find space to fill with Honour Glory Truth fickle swaying market money cannot fade
leave the hectic confusion of Past in a tupperware container drilled full with air holes to let it breath and gently rot and fade anything of real steel in there will oxidise into learnt valuable antiques beautiful with barnacles and warped with age and rain and wind open carton of Today and pour it slowly over naked writing bearing in sane mind fine wire choices that invisibly fence Abyss you walked a ghost in the dark and felt the cold and lived the tricks/mistakes and white noise night thunder now the meat flesh is real/not laid out on a chilled slab - walk bare and opened in the blues and flower oranges of fruit and water daylight and feel the warmth from the good/bad new/old cafe corners and night-out streets on your constantly surprised questioning/accepting ageing birthday face