Philip Terry
ASHTRAY
SOUL
- “Sometimes
the antonym is right.”
-
-
Anthony Barnett
Be silent.
- As if I couldn’t
fail to
- Acknowledge
- Ignorance,
- Lunging backwards
- Across the field.
From what now
- Don’t I
- Dangerously steal
- On drug-fuelled
nights?
- The black skies of
mortality.
Do you not hear
- Me unsay that
- Your intention
- To be serious
- Isn’t generous?
- Moral:
- Unlike your nose.
In the morning
- You stamp
- My visible
- Ear with
- A conventional and
- Polite
- Kiss.
I never said
- A new chair
- Has no history.
- A grin from Ruth.
- Silenced tongues.
Running on my own
- My trousers flap
round my ankles.
- Unappetising keen
odour
- Dissipates.
You never see
- Me ease
- Myself
- Out of the limelight.
- Carefully dressed.
- My lips are
- Sealed.
Different places
- Speak plainly.
- We die in our
- Impudence. You
- Judge me by the
cover,
- Like a
- Cheap paperback.
This doesn’t explain why
- Your gesture
- Races through
- My non-existence.
- You are distant
- From yourself.
Overexcited
- And unequivocal.
Not there behind me
- Air of thoroughbred
- Rose and exterminate
- Bindweed. Not
there
- I am not.
Imploding.
- Thirst-quenching eau
de vie.
Modestly
- Your homeopathic
cures
- For anorexia
- Come unstuck in the
face
- Of your fridge.
You can’t picture
- Me behind
- A drumkit.
- You are well
- Out of it.
- Timeless
- Soloist.
You are horrified by
- Serenity like a
- Landlocked firing
- Squad. Outsized
- Planets and clay
- Pigeons. Fading
- Sun.
This is no
- Crop circle.
- Full orchestra
- At daybreak.
- Valley sanatorium.
- Myxomatosis.
Are you not sun blind
- Sun spoke mouthing
- Misattributed
success? Symphony
- For brass.
In cluster bombs
- We play out our
watery
- Affections. We
meet
- On the cliff.
- Caught in possession.
Blotted out in
- Dumbshow fountains
- Fact crumbles.
- Opaque
- Grey undercoat.
Out of sync
- I remember or
- Make a claim.
Hyperreality
- Stretches out the air-brushed
- Gravel. Only
yes, no
- Water sculptures.
This isn’t a
- Non-event with
- Doves. Touch
- Her. Large new-found
- Island. You
have
- Seen so much.
Below nothing
- An inoffensive racket.
- Realistic teeth.
- Or the patio
- Now a jungle.
- Untransfigured,
- Adult.
Sleeping
- Dusk drops
- Your ears on
- The pillow.
Bats
- Caress you. I
am
- Bad on the move.
Black gums reek of age.
- Dreadlocks
- And red wine.
Going straight
- For the flower.
- Black reality of the
night.
When mists evaporate
- You are all ears.
You hear
- A watery earth
populate
- The heavens.
- Then it all comes
back.
With your silence
- You never fail to
question
- Me about the
happiness
- Of the prisoner.
Why
- Shouldn’t you
release
- Me?
Not
- Just a deluge of
sunshine,
- Tangible steps along
the vale.
- And us, asleep,
- Photographed.
You see
- Unfamiliar sights.
- Cut felt
- On lard.
- Touch brightens.
- Bore-hole.
Warm
- Omniscient
- Moon.
- Melting
- Wax
- Nose.
Outside my ears
- Prose freezes
- All but the stiff.
- Wasps loiter
- Impertinently.
- Sweetness
- And cold putty
- Clog the brain.
We deconstruct
- Pastiches of bark.
- Sub-atomic waves
- Unhinge. I’m
so
- Big my frown
- Drops on to the table.
Does the difference
- Of two signifiers
look
- (metonymically) like
- (metaphorically) the
trajectory
- Of a falling
tambourine?
Then an echoing silence.
You never see them undress.
- The impatient boys
- Outside bars and
- Parks, bodice
- Buttons done.
Under the chair
- Trousers done-up and
skirts
- Unzipped.
Around a wall
- The hoover sucks
- Earth through a
crevice.
- Across and back a
propeller
- Hovers over the eye.
My
- Diminutiveness
- Opens
- Out of the circle.
- A hole is formed.
They find you
- Empty-handed.
- Distilling potheen.
- Curiously indifferent
and
- Unafraid of
trespassers.
- Speeding,
inconspicuous
- And appropriate.
Released
- Over the pier, doors
- Remain closed, old
breasts
- On slacks,
- Hugs, separated by
indifference.
Tears
- Oblivion, you forget
- You hate me.
Wholeheartedly
- I hand back the
- Chains of the folk
song.
- Spun on a wheel.
Yours is unnatural
- Escapism, too little
- Hung on a cross.
- A genteel fad lost
amidst
- Maybe and why not.
What is that bush
- Like a blackout blind
- That robs our
- Flat of light?
Sadly
- She dyes the earth
gold
- Standing under a tree
- For no reason at all.
- Lust for two of a
kind
- Without talent or
- Energy.
My unnumbered feet
- Pieced together from
the noisy
- Uniform aberrations
- Of modernity
- In virtual motion.
-
- text
(Ashtray Soul) © Philip Terry 2005
- images
(Autumn Leaves, Hexham) © Albert Sumac 2005
- A
Raunchland Publication
- 2005
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