Memory Cupboards

I have become immune to fears,
Self-isolated well for sixteen years,
They parade unpaved disparities;
Penthouse peer, wealthy elite,
At different ends of a London street
As those avoided by Charities.

Having heard men demoted
And with vanity bloated
Rose pomades for their ego-whores;
The trumpet and flag as bad as the gun,
Why does it surprise most everyone,
When they evince long since I closed my doors.

They stole the ways which I adored,
Replaced with substance I abhorred,
And shaped a brand new Anschluss.
Trace it back to where it began,
Roman praetors had a plan
Overthrowing Tarquinius Superbus;

We are living still within their laws
From Linnaeus through to Aristotlean cause,
From scientists rife to churchgoers;
So I bought anteaters for my thinking-lawn
Long before ideas were born
Of secateurs and mowers;

Painted a cross on my front and back doors,
Filled memory-cupboards, finished my chores,
Pulled down the eyelids of my sea-shutter.
Divulged to my love a secret knock,
Watered the plants and changed the lock,
Set sail on a harbour-dream cutter.

 

 

Endgame

If this is to be the last poem written,
Then this is not a poem,
It is a manifesto for living.
Help your children see the detail
Barricading good from evil,

Prevent from the age of seven
The colicky fissure which cracked through us.
Do not remove yourself
From a race to the snowbound summit,
Simply for the winners’ flags

Are fixed in red and yellow.
Sometimes people are stronger
From surviving conflict and wars,
But yours left you feeling weaker,
And sapped your resolve for the cause.

You foresaw the denuding of Greenland,
Three or so decades ago, and knew
Whose bellies kept Blame well-warmed,
You heard the Arctic splintering shores
Long before green-washing formed.

You could see a disease in the tallow
Contemporary tenants were chasing,
You felt in your heart the direction of travel
And disowned a journey debasing
Love and landscapes once hallow.

Pathologists have patrons who barter;
They open us up and in shorthand notate
The contents of stomach, the slender wrists;
I told you my house is not on the market,
Nor its contents of Soul and State.

I would want you to know, last reader,
That you had such company you could not see,
Lumbering ghosts through the mud
In our bodies, breathing our blood;
I could not remove the memories

Of the bite in my thigh
Where mine would have me be late;
There will be no insects with wings remaining.
When they win, all Karma will be eradicated.
The rest since then is Fate.