27. Filling These Voids with Foxes

“the fox some bounding shape
it made me feel dirty all over
like when you accept all circumstances
and agree to the continuance of power”

“remember the bloody head of the dog
stuck on a stake in the Midlands someplace
seen from the car as a curse
young & unaware of all our abasement”

“it ran into the brambles I think
enjoying its delicious games
bubbling off into memory now
like the symbol for utter astonishment”

“like the strange close attention of children
their concerns locked in comfortable unconcern
don’t you know school starts tomorrow
to stop you leaping like foxes?”

these are stories to tell about the self
and you – also scars then an unfolded universe
ungracile & bloody peculiar filling
something dark outside themselves
                                  I dream

26. The Sudden Appearance of Foxes in the Darkness of Night Shocked Her Deeply

choose something horrible
must sit at the edges
are smeared with a past
filthy as cake
regretted w/ everything
don’t know what is
learn very slowly
to hide inside possessions
abase ourselves to power
dream of many things
that may not happen
don’t trust
or like this world
– how can we
change it?

A Dog:
doesn’t regret
knows what is
hacked off head
knows what is
yet still
abased to power

bubbles & flourishes
fuels & propels
gets caught up & sticks
– scratch off
w/ brambles

don’t realise
don’t clean
don’t hate
– where are we all
this early autumn sun?

The Stories:
scars & repetition
grand natural process
what comes after
unfilled voids appear
mean nothing
spore, bubble to flourish
tend into dreams
all about children
tell us
what action is
what words
can do
filling these voids

24. More Mongrel Theory

It was the tattoo that told me all
a collar of S’s on his Staffie
I’d inscribe on its back to let it scream
the Sun in Splendour! the Neon Cross!
no excesses! no German! no bloody quotations!
just the right size in the right place
– now that’s what I call ein gutes Gedicht!

We’re all going to hell in a handcart
the little one sang so I relented then, a bit
the air reeked of buddleia & country-rock as well
the signs of an English summer as it all turns to kitsch
I accept no responsibility
                           not for your choices now
a true radical poetry can’t be written in English
what it utters cost too many lives

Is there any language where the word for “blood”
does not thrill you to the heart w/ all that’s lost?
OK, that’s what the dog said, & it knows
– not as a concept but a syrupy smell
yeah, like summer, like poetry, like radical chic
coming back again & again & sticking to us, oozing
to loopily annoy our skin
                          I won’t hurt it now

Encrust it all with gore! stick its Staffie head
on top of Bassett’s Pole – know nothing but hate
coating me up like ancient gloss paint – tacky
my eyes water for the little children covered with our hate
our excesses scar their lives already
what we lost in our long war with ourselves
gone absolutely: time for total strip out
I’m sorry about the dog
                        not it’s fault either
chuck the rubbish maybe & then get digging

Nothing holding us here once the dog’s dead – let’s
steal away, far from the buddleia, now, the salvia
all the chrysanthemums & dahlias that flock & flutter
they give me no pleasure
                         no understanding or ignorance
just gardeners filled with joy at their plugging of the void

I ought to like this world & trust but don’t
                                             who would?
time to stop killing dogs, then maybe to get some fun