Pilliwinks and The Boot

Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done? Three words which,
if spoken too soon, sears itself upon
my balloon. Beneath a rib-deck soffit,
above an auger bit and over fade
of the dial up scree, down from a chop saw
on a lobotomised floor, (shell and core)
– and it has begun. So, ain’t that done yet?

Ain’t you done that yet? Ain’t that done? And he’s
standing in the frame – albumen slipping
from his chewed firework grin. He, who came for
a snout and bring me pain. Real pain, mind,
– not sham pain. So, come on son. Come on son.

Ain’t you done that yet? Ain’t that done? Words which,
he said in spite – to me (the neophyte)
nice and loud (preferably in a crowd).
Now watch my neck go tight. Watch how I’m all
fingers and thumbs, in a two and eight, thanks
to this old skate – and it weighs a fucking ton.

Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done? Three words which,
will finish me off in front of cloth (much
like the lad himself). So, find my rule and
the nearest venule. Take my set square and
cut me from ear to ear, till it is a
thoroughfare. Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done?
So, come on son. Come on son. Come on son.

My Head is a Cat B Jug

1.

I pace the yard (within the walls of my
CAT B Jug), till the moth light. I count out
the pocks of plow and vug on every one
of those Ryarsh Bricks, till deliverance comes.

2.

To achieve a sleep of a wholesome kind
I try Black Tar and a Red Handbag, but
nothing – nothing prevents that sprung, taut pawl
from reaching its rusted ratchet – even
on balmy lotus evenings such as this.

When they make their move it is as one, in
a tortoise formation, but at the pace
of a rag of roan. They are all shod in
house slippers (so I won't hear the chlorine
on vinyl squeak) and in their coppery
fingertips – a contract. A contract that
bears my name and a clutch of blue carbons
with mothers scrawl. So, I am in the frame.

Like Grandmothers Footsteps, I cannot see
nor place them – not until it's too late. Not
until there's clamour at the bedroom door.

3.

This is the time those blighted limbs reach out.
Reach from its parliament of trees into
my room, where I can only lay and watch.
Watching their digits dab, dab, dab, the damp
magnolia and rise up the arris
like a bacterial bloom. At apex,

the shadows fall to the scarred marmoleum –
a fat chain of scuttled supertankers
all en-route to my bedside, carrying
that same cargo of Caen coping stone, which
I will sign for tonight (and tomorrow).

One by one each slab is laid upon me
till I’m sinking deeper 'neath the charcoal
wash of night. Oolite dust filling my lungs
till I can’t take no more (nerves rubbed raw).

I want to quit upon my stool, but still
I reach the landing, to go out standing.

4.

When I wake, it is at three and at ten
degrees and I am grasping for her dug.
Somewhere in here, I hear bovine shrieks – mine
and not hers (from inside my CAT B Jug).

November 28, 2024