on boundaries by Fran Lock

‘The great function of poetry is to give us back the situations of our dreams’- Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space.

in rooms tumescent mirthless heat. time skew. missequencing. omen formation.
the boundaries we make with ritual. the boundaries we make with meaning. we
like to think we are free. it is dark. being blind is like being naked. clear a space.
white spire of flowers we crush a silence of  varieties. missequencing in broken
windows. small discords experienced as whispers. intrusive thoughts. dyslexic
lobes will part the light like lips. your lips. a kiss. a torch. circles of influence,
love’s impatient centrifuge. hold me. by which you mean synchronise. small
buoyancies displace the dark we sink the candles into. in rooms. time skew. this
was our house. omen formation, rarely seen in adults. omen formation is a belief.
there were warning signs that predicted the trauma. it is a belief. listed buildings,
magical thinking.

 

light moves at the same speed in any direction. if i was travelling at the speed of light
i wouldn’t see my own face in the mirror, and life is like that. catastrophic immanence
awaited daily. low barking surrounds the hour. a siren’s shrieking religionless knell.
a sky that’s infantile with fireworks. i am winding watches like god. kids whose faces
are anvils of unluck. towns beset by orbital gormlessness, swollen with petrochemical
steroid. engines reverence engines. an evensong of handbrake turns. joyriding. without
the joy. the planet’s heating up. and donald trump will make a soiree of extinction.
doesn’t talk in sentences, but bumper stickers. psychotic with sincerity. wants to make
love to the world. david fucking berkowitz. do your thoughts assume the shape of a giant
insect, of a black dog? alone in the maundering ordinary failed at everything. my eating
disorder, a renaissance of ruined teeth i make perversion out of protein. the severe plenty
of settled life, the garden gagged in plastic. light moves. bad brains bloated on bad news.
amateur savant, spatial waste. vomits like a dog that eats its vomit. community violence. doom.
missequencing. ten men dead saves our lead. after the invention of gravity, nineteen sixteen
was mostly downhill.

the meek will inherit their god, his tongue like a tattered
coat. the family, cold and paupering, gathering in corners
a red morning is deserted. eyes to the broken climate. our
flesh bittered. forensic melancholy: culture. it’s anything
you dig from earth.

in rooms. recent hygienes, disconcerted calories. the on-going genocide
of bathroom germs. i must cut carbs to trump a falling feather. on the beach
in black denim. a starchy exertion. sweat. three pairs of tights. an indifference
that is like monogamy. boundaries. a name is a place of trespass. i have my
father’s eyes. green flints that fail the turing test. the fruit here is less toxic
and more rotten. oh, my omnidirectional sense of shame! present myself to
the fan-girling multitude. here i am! in my dreams i can declare myself, i
can beat the computer at chess. the sea remains upon my lips like a lovely
name. airport. england. men with luddite buttonholes howling how they
died for you. the pulse’s soft homing. the camp we made at glandore. no
one died for me. in rooms. it gets worse. a scream is clenched inside
a velvet mouth meaning night the night’s velvet reflex. boys who stabbed
a man for cigarettes. saturday has amphetamine breath, a jittery inclination.
the pencil-necked dependants in the park. i wish the pain would stop.
my hopeless platelets, white like paper boats and floating doomed. and
it gets worse every day. the blue electric drips on regent street as angels
open up like wet umbrellas. a prayer to a saint with a fragrant name.
method acting my salvation. omen formation. is a word that tastes
like breaking. skinny wrists bemoan my bangles. there are no other
places. the future is a straight line i find offensive. clever girl, fawning
at a border with her deadpan erudition: a word might tell us who we are.
on how many levels are your poems working? there is no ancestry. only
now. the exhaustible geography of grievance. unmoored acre of green
after green. there is nowhere to go. there is no go. naming doesn’t dance.

you can’t reduce this grief to a dumb crush of mileage. life is a journey.
midday sun like a brick through the window. the scuff and thaw of verges,
horses, indiscriminate dogs. an iridescent urgency to everything. tipsy
sea of candles. we used to live here. we used to live. an irredeemable
pub. hectic fuchsia. your life is not the road. the squalid diction of small
towns. the musicless startle of fists in a rural night. your life is your life
is your face, exceptional in searchlights. omen formation. manifest destiny.
black mountains banded together like a lynch mob…

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