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Tuesday, 30 January 2018

Angel

Angel

Casual? No, no, it’s more than just:
smacking you up with daggered trust.
It’s offhand backhanded down the line buggery,
some kind of sugar coated, so what, shruggery.
Leaving you for another you and you’re left with fuckery.


Heart warped thumping, life barely pumping,
pounding blood. Gorse gored gnawed flesh.
Lungs seizing, flighting, choke-piping breath
and trembling the wrists to the very brink,
stroking; stoking remembrance, throwing back drinks,
spasms, chasms, abyss black tunnel-visions
cold fire sweating, water boarding, mindless schisms
until the body swims, muscles waste:
Then, the wraiths jump us to some other place.


And the Angel smiled and said to him,
‘How now, my love, my love, my love?
Why did you sit and stare, amongst the foxgloves?’


So, the little boy looked up, alone and hurt,
and his bare toes pushed at the dirt.
And I think he said:
‘You promised. You promised. It would last,
that faraway spell that we cast,
your future is my past,
our two lives
linked
together
our love
forever.
Unbreakable.’


‘Ah, my love, my love, my love.
Those were but foolish sounds you must never speak of.
Scatter those words amongst your foxgloves.’


So, the little boy, still sad, threw down his pen.
I think it shattered as it hit the ground, then
he frowned and cried:
‘But if I’m writing the words in the book you gave me,
then how can they then ever save me?’


But she was gone in a thrice.
leaving him to spell her name with ice.


Jump cut. Shark snip. Dissolve and fade,
switchback-swim channels, flutterback the page.
One year when we were sick-tired with grief,
robbed of our self-beliefs, no energy to turn the leaves,
honour lost amongst the honest thieves.


Judge me not, your honours,
when I say to you all,
there was a cupboard set into the wall,
a recess, a flaw in their world’s design,
scarcely there at all.
A door into the fabric of the facade.
More a wardrobe into another time.
Ask yourselves: was this a crime?
To enter with her there.
No witch seemed she, and myself scarcely a lion.
Or if so, certainly a cowardly one at that.
Even a lost knight might step across the threshold
with the hand of an Angel there to hold.
Oh, kind old Lucifer, I was once her truest love
But, my Angel, she has crucified me on a cross.
Well, I could cast my lot in with the infidel
approximate paradise here in rebellious hell.


For once I stood on ripped green, scarred Cornish cliffs,
where the rain beats ten thousand tattoos upon the gorse.
The trees are bent blasted, twisted shells.
The weighty sea crashes in swollen remorse,
lightning scores and slashes a terrified heaven above,
tearing the sky in half without a care in thought
to wreck us where we our passion sought.
We stood there together, released the dove.
And, my Angel, soon after took me, in hunger and love.


Come, Angel, I summon you.
I can do that, you know. Never think I cannot.
Because you threw your soul in with my lot.
We entered that place, there is no return,
never think that you and I won’t yearn,
for what, in there, could have there been learned.
I know I can arouse you hot and screaming
as you flit on the border of yesterday’s dreaming.
Beyond buried hedgerows, the mudlark scrapes
in riverdirt, scavenging deep down into our mistakes.


And the Angel caressed his hair and said:
‘How now, my love, my love, my love?
Why amongst this sterile sand so far from heaven above?



So, the little boy looked up, alone and hurt,
and his bare toes pushed at the eternal vast desert,
And sand hour-glassed through his fingers.
And I think he said:
‘If spells were only made to break,
then what becomes of goodness sake?
Does the future lie in the sand,
never an outstretched hand,
and nothing
left here
but the
waste
land?’


‘Ah, my love, my love, my love.
These foolish thoughts will bring the rain.
Scatter these thoughts amongst the grains.’



So, the little boy, still sad, tore up the pages.
and the fragments swirled against the ages
he clenched his fist and cried:
‘But if I’m writing the words with the pen you gave me,
then how can they then ever save me?’


But she was gone in a thrice.
and the desert sun had melted the ice.


Once
we had driven for hours, seeking a wheat ripened field,
there from the world our passion to conceal,
and every opening in every hedge had refused to yield.
Until I saw the Angel by the church.
The sun beat down upon the hay.
And so, we lay.
We tasted each other.
You were sweet. Like chocolate.
You ripped into me as though I was the last supper.
branding my flesh, scoring my thoughts,
swallowing my smile, everything I am.
Angel, in your sole, you promised rolled up protection,
you calmed, you soothed and sought nothing but affection,
and, indeed, you were perfection:
Your breasts, your thighs,
your glittering eyes
your moans and sighs.
Oh, you swore it would last,
the spell was cast.
Now do I lie sick and pale.
Fevered and shivered,
threshed and wasted,
arrows quivered.
Angel,
just some ailing knight:
punishment metred
out and delivered.
Once.


Long before all of you, there was just one.
With the power to sooth the cuts and bruises,
she showed me books and that pens have uses,
and taught me that kissing should be fun,
as she watched my back in the Maltese sun.
She warned me, though, as she ran her hands through my curls,
that you will break the hearts of many girls,
Grandson,
those eyes are too deep, that frown will scar your brow,
and the weight of the cradle will break the bough.
If you gaze into caverns, you might never return
and rue what in there should never be learned.


Face me, Angel, because I can make you, if I wish.
Before you dismiss me with a kiss.
Oh, we hide our destructive deceiving shapes,
from each of us, but we can never truly escape,
the rocks and cliffs of careless fate.
I loved you all. The heart bleeds, my scars weep,
from words never true and the spells slashed deep,
so many loves, so many faces, Angel, and time, she ever creeps.
Look me now in the eye and never assume that I will cry:
Shred me with your venomed scorn,
as your wings are crushed and torn,
your halo extinguished; your hair stripped shorn.


And the Angel stroked his frown and said:
‘How now, my love, my love, my love?
Why in this cavern? What thoughts and visions do you talk of?



So, the little boy furrowed, creased and scowling,
stood at the edge of the eternal howling,
And observed the brink.


And I think he said:
‘If spells can save you from the fall,
then why does this hold me in its thrall?
Downwards into black murky pit,
a tumble into nought but shit,
to lie bleeding
and crushed
with a head
that’s
split.’


‘Ah, my love, my love, my love.
These idle fantasies but need an Angel’s kiss.
Now throw yourself into the abyss.’



So, the little boy, took up the book.
He turned and faced her with some look,
he seized the pen and his voice now shook:
‘So perhaps you should give me a helpful shove?
my love, my love, my love.’


But she was gone in a thrice.
because she saw he’d spelt her name with ice.


Come my hearties:
Like Lucifer from the gates of hell,
march we back to heaven, against the swell,
we will man the galleon and fight the flood,
where Cornish shanties stir the blood.
Trelawney shall we this vessel name,
never more hang our hearts in shame,
We’ll breast the seas, we’ll battle for life,
unsheathe the sword, cut free the knife,
fearlessly contest the thrashing Kraken
with lust and blood the Gods awaken,
clash we all against the conflagration,
until we attain the sacred nation.
Never more to gaze into the abyss.
Never more betrayed by an Angel’s kiss.



Perhaps many years passed.
Who can say?



But Angel touched her scar and said:
'My love, my love, my love,
she has cast me down from above.
She says I sin,
she tore these wings.'

And the man looked up and barely said:
'My love. Well, that is the way of things.'