the creation of modernity
fold open your sighs, your little
tight balls of pain. drape them
shape of no shape
on the brim of modernity
design of no design. let them hang
I once saw over the swell of my bitten tongue
a child then
& knowing nothing of the senescent motion of cells
there were passings; losses some call them, & I
of course, felt loss as the sighs folded their creases flat
but smooth was their freedom
like parachute silk taut with surging air
& the rush of lungs, the high of breath
what is left of life
moving
into sere, black-socketed bones
beaded, embedded
in its own creation
and still the memory of long, unbroken hair
the future gathers you in. it gathers you small
opens into the modern as now enters then
it will hold you & place you
finally
the gilded stone
eye framed the seal of your mouth in magic. you
held a gilded stone there. it spoke to me
in shine & shaped my I into a blink
curled my tongue into a wet loop
when do we have chances to lick stone?
its treasure coming away in our sterile mouths
causing bones to never contemplate dust
causing dust itself to be sudden &
completely beautiful
causing us to spit lustre
may-day
ground beneath the blossom-snow the underfoot of life
walking insomnia bleeding the moon to a crust
day, day, a strangle. a gathering of focus. too many
mute eyes pushing deep into stained wood. an autograph.
no mere identity would do,
but does
& the queues outnumber the free
Spring is smoothing the trees. human bones plead
for softening, too painful to sleep. the gush of dream
is a tangle in the slide of perception
the waking pick at the moon, wrap it
in a day-shaped sleeve. call it the sun.
plant it.
physic(s)
In the strangle of line the tremor of twist
& taut displays despondency.
The weeping wrist
lays out its palm;
a soft tray of offering.
This pain is small
(hermetic)
in the impromptu shaping of my will. To conquer it
would be my greatest failure. This pain
belongs.
It is the umbral throb of
resting light behind skin shades. I
am t h i n n i n g
yet my edges still abut the beauty
of a splintered rareness. Perhaps
the magicians
are real. They have tricks
I am told. In any case, these throbbing atoms
tell me all I need to know. We oscillate
in the winnowing
far & beyond
the naked I -
a remedy
to history.
the intimate structure of co-existence
I decorate halting fabric
with incandescent shadow
paraphrasing autobiography
announcing the amnesty
of contact
{limbus}
unscrew contorted gap. this
transparent therapy is not a window
through which I see the certainty of
a falling winter. I am
(greedy &) ashamed
of the delinquency of my need
a protean artefact contracted
by the bond of this intimacy
conceding
to a supple silence
saturated
to the point of rainbow.
I cannot thank
enough this subtle arc of permutation
the co-exist of colour
assemblage
of invisible detail. two eyes
look.
how they look. the seeing is elsewhere.
Gillian Prew lives in Scotland. She has a philosophy degree and a succession of low-paid, menial jobs to her credit. Having abandoned her first novel she currently writes poetry. Some of her poems can be found at Eviscerator Heaven, Up the Staircase, The Glasgow Review, Eleutheria and The Recusant. She is responsible for two collections of poems, ‘Moving on the Madness’ and ‘Standing Still in Motion’. She likes coffee and crows.
