Thursday, 6 December 2012

in a pub 100 years ago

a gown of snow
the river drowned by light
a moon behind fists
the essential
darkness of snow
falls into open wound
as someone insists they saw a horse play the piano
in a pub 100 years ago
falls into opening wound
“George Osborne, god of love, we have spurned beauty” (Sean Bonney)

my Gran would gossip with her friends out shopping
remembering the war the terrace house next door in Bangalore Street
destroyed in a night raid my Gran
had a premonition and took herself and Mum
to stay with relatives the day before an entire family killed
twins 5 years old / bizarrely an
upright piano
out on the street un
damaged Gran’s house an open wound to the sky
ribbons of wallpaper scar tissue

it’s early morning there’s frost on the ground
the shrubbery crackles telephone wires whisper into the grey
now it is become impossible to tell ghosts from
their echoes / S stands at the wide
open window blasts of frozen air and naked
and curls beside me in the bed
and we drink some whisky fire-burn russet /
in her coat of olive green stepping out of the lift and me
watching her slender back
and upright stance disappear

being categorised
as the undead dead in the future in the weird places
outside the city outside the town
fencing and land of notices patrolled
by dogs / private /
privation / a creature
drinking from an icy puddle
h(a)unted by hounds / inside the city
inside the town; tinfoil clouds and weep for the cameras
... and it took several minutes to adjust to the interior’s gloom

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