Home Town
The evening fog Ice forms.
The town,
with the engine down of a slowing car,
A cat that doesn't care
No dog barks Even the wind is still.
The visitor,
Thin,
he has the stride of tired confidence,
Inside this mock-welcoming place,
He walks austere white corridors
He can't relax;
so routine decides Its great to have a coo and gurgle now and then; although thank God that I can give 'em back to mum if they should scream and howl, or stink and do what babies do. To live a life of dreadful luck from careless thrill, nine months of getting fat, and growing fright of things gone wrong, then hospital who fill you up with drugs and that's if things go right. I wouldn't have the chance of looking good for months, then there's the bites and nipple strife, a smelly child, a screaming stink, that could not do the simplest thing, and grief for life. A soul that's caged, there's no way that's for me, I don't want such responsibility.
Awoken by the morning light,
Oh God,
Fog,
Having no urgency, His catching eyes attract as fire in hearth, alighting on myself a burning lust; the pub, the people, places, all of Earth, vanish. I smile. He smiles. My eyes, in trust, down-turning, blur. I know his psyche hums, his eyes are bright with life itself. This dare I'll take, and him as well: he walks, he comes to me. And I, I wait for him; to where we meet and find that private space. His hand, I shall entice to want, a need to touch, adore my female style. We talk a grand unworded stream of wish. In need, as much in me, I find I dance and flaunt my curves, and taunt myself as all his life deserves.
Eaten, filled,
architectural finesse subjugated
Yet the town's nature survives
Less crass, a low line bungalow, The doctor said my body's going wild, the safest thing to do is to abort: if I did that, I'd never have a child again. He told me this is what I ought to do, and so I told him where to go. I want to take this chance of giving birth; he said he thought that's what I'd say. I know it is a risk: some mothers bleed to death because of what I've got. He said he'll keep an eye on me. It's strange: I feel I'm like the rope they strain in tugs of war - I need to have my child, I want to live a life - yet I'm relaxed. I've made my choice. I'll ride these rolling die. God knows I have to try.
Newspaper scanned, forgotten,
And of complete control
to be gathered
Sweat. A moment crawls.
Still seated,
and his car
The father moves, Stillness.
And shock continues A policeman comes,
with strength to quell a dozen tanks, with build
he,
With eyes, all bow,
The youth: silent.
The visitor,
He leaves
Only the birds hear
finger |
![]() Dylan Harris 97-99 it's my hands my difficulty with melancholy hence the coldness fear in flight, god dog sea push pop all publish © & licence feedback site home |
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