Etching on Glass

Here where I wash your feet in pearls of gothic vision
Here between X-ray cataract and surgical incision
Here where black curtains occlude all the light
Here where you’re ready to put up a fight
Here where your sickness comes home to heal
Here where the voices whisper but never reveal
Here where rusted-hinge doors refuse to close
Here where it’s never a crime to oppose
Here where spiders claim their right to spin
Here in the shambolic mess that we’re in
Here in the cold light filtered through bones and entrails
Here where illusionists blow holes in your sails
Here at the centre of the new ideal
the cutting edge, the scalpel’s cold steel

Here where the embalmers massacre clocks
the body pale marble in the wooden box
drained of blood, hope and need
and failing yet to concede

Here amongst taffeta and raw silk skein
Here where the needle hits the vein
Here where you think that you know what you want
Here between the mascara-ed lashes of Mary Quant
Here where your kimono is guilt gilded green
Here in the shadows of the silver screen
Here submerged in sweet truth and bitter regret
Here where the hammer strikes the firing pin
...the finger to direct
Here in your dreams of Inuit existence
Here on the edge of gravity’s persistence

Here lies your world - built from the ground up
Every stitch unravelled and rethreaded in understanding
Every nail wrought bare from the furnace of your thirst
Every decorative curlicue imbued with purpose

Here your obsession
Here the concessions
Here your compulsion
Here the revulsion
Here your visions
Here your decisions
Here is your lease
Here your peace
Here what you’ve done with it
Here your sharpened wit
Here your open head
Here the books read
Here the things you have seen
Here the places you’ve been

Right here and now.

January 2007

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