Tuesday, 11 October 2016

SHREW'S FIDDLE BEING USED



         One minute, this all night & unable
to feel a thing, how your head flung about
slips into the field; I see a bundle of leaves
yelling
 that you cannot go.
           Scattered far out over the country
through the sky’s field
     are other parts of you
flung
down here; down here your own danger
carried out at night, parting, resolving
lying. Then
                                        You appear there
         Speaking
                                         Your elf voice
                  private confessional for chastity:

The outside world enrols the inside.
I can see a butterfly;
  the history of containment
is outside power, the majorative. Where neither of us
are, but the thing plaits, abstracting our places,


for this moment local. The hotel taken in red ivy
a monstrously fucking unfair pejorative “we”, I am
  someone just walked over my grave.
  Perhaps it was a Yeti.


For a while at least, it is a little open ended. Noticed
a lack or a kneeling stockade. Barely knowable
person there fallen
under the sky’s random release mechanism
now that
     someone knows. That someone elsewhere.


  
           
         A puppy cage wrought &
         good. Especially sad
                                                 are the emptied bars of
          mouth slumps some
          times its stitched blank
         openness is the exact permission needed to fault it
        
         betrays the whole world.
                                           A real cage

                                           Far better than that.

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