Pollen and Dust


Pollen and Dust

An attic cluttered
with paintings and partings,
nevers and forevers
mislaid – a box of photographs
beneath an old LP
showing years spent naked
in a smaller person’s skin.

Infancy, knowing no dust or dyslexia
lives the infinite dog-goddedness
where expectation is milk. Christ, take me
to the breast, no, further—I want
back in! Womb me
quick, while no-one’s looking! Strip me
with your eyes – if you start
I’ll finish… it’s not sex
though that might help
but do we go to bed
or into our corners?

cos’ it’s come like a fistfight
between the late John-Paul
and Heidegger’s proctologist,
and I’m wondering, is it more fun
to win in love or boxing? either
loses glitter, gathers rust, takes up
too much space or not enough
and here we are, hoping towards
auctioned memorabilia.

It’s too late for Ikea:
self-assembled salvation
and ingenious lighting solutions
cannot help me now. Next summer
I’ll get the jump
by starting in the spring: junk
old portraits of the honeymooners’ Nile, keep
only crocs and pyramids, Cleopatra’s
rhinoplasty, a tapestry
of fine platitudes.

First published in Heat 13.

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