Doesn’t matter what hit you, or how long the skid:
heartbreak, burnout, dead-end. Whatever –
feet lose the road; the throat won’t work.
Every barge needs some flow,
but this stream’s dry. The wind’s gone home,
and the horizon's washed out. Flounder,
scanning the plasterboard sky for signs:
there are none. Groundlessness opens.
Slip and slide... like Main Street –
draped with stores for adults, and kiddies …
The waltzing highway twirls its banners. And sinks.
Then it’s the world of the eels.
Big ones, hooks in jaws, fishing lines, scars;
eyes green-gold and unblinking.
They wrap round my neck and they know me –
guarding the birthright: our cry.
Out there, the men form a line; they’re well-dressed
and ready to rescue me. A glossy-lipped girl
flashes credit, catch-phrases, touchscreen and PIN.
Their lives glitter and sputter; their words
are hard rubber balls to bounce me on track.
As why who where drip from my head,
they’ll set things straight, no-o-o problem.
No problem no problem no problem ....
And, coughing up slime, I’ll be forgiven;
be led shuffling up the staircase a step at a time.
Like my father before me. And his, and his.
So we work for the Empire.
We plough soil into dust and drink truth from pumped gestures;
we lean over fences discussing our gardens,
and at dusk we slide out – to what we can fondle.
Or slip into cracks. Between normal and normal;
between hold on and numb out: cracks;
then mouths – that rasp the refrain of the eels:
‘Sand...this is sand, just sand, shifting sand … '
Before I got born, in that heart-pool's swirl,
we were floating. But to live is to dive – into bodies
that grasp for a keel. So our cry can rise,
and go wheeling – out through sparkle
and shadow. Opening out into vow.