A Meditation on the Hill of Crosses

I. Before

 

Goodbye grey complexion of London

your anxiety chewed nails re-applying mascara

behind condensation on misty eyed café window

arthritic fingers failing to grip the sleeves of a red, san serif shirt

phonemic frayed stitching the typeface of tabloid philosophy

caricatures of sex & violence letter pressed upon the Milky Way

Hera chewing a Nicorette & drinking gin

Her celestial tears glistening on periorbital puffiness.

She’s watching cholesterol sex on the Old Kent Road

chamois leather faces wiping baked bean sauce onto buttered bread

arms inked by artistic ennui – a stigmata on yesterday’s silhouette.

Outside, rain & puddles on the pavement

the gutter’s skin wounded through consumption

& buses pass by selling dreams I don’t want

or need

& be warned! The tea was used to wash the plates

 

II. During

 

A sunny afternoon in Lithuania

gravel confetti falling from pilgrims’ fingers

Silently.         Reaching to touch the landscape’s breast.

Her nipple an effigy. Jesus’ carved another selfie out of wood

or was it Joseph?

Artisan calligraphy or graffiti by tortured fingers

/vwa-yer, voy-er/

Summer’s watching autumn – dry fields

grass dreaming of drinking the clouds through a red straw

/soh-vi-uht, sov-i-uht/

phonetic violence on the lips of an AK-soprano

bullets holes in velvet draped over Cyrillic scars

as cruelty transcends linguistic possibilities.

Shall we put another candle on the cake?

 

III. After

 

another day staring at a blank page

another day left wondering

about hair made from candy floss

& wanting to eat the laces on my liquorice shoes

& curing speech impediments caused by too much LSD

or should that be LCD?

If only poetry was prophetic realism

a stanza a day…