Shot through the Fog
Breaking Winter up by shooting numbers from the clock/The cat sleeps on the atlas in Alsace Lorraine, dreaming long grass and birds on the wire/I have memories no deeper than this glass and some besides that stretch history twice/In a super 8 film colour haze, a scratched nostalgia that runs through my cogs - shot through the fog; time taking care of whatever I cared about/ So you are lost somewhere in here - your body, a raft,spinning towards the falls/Your death claimed me too - there were two throats in the noose but mine now swallows whiskey, mine is not now bruised/The black mouth of this month, bruised lips, black ice, forms a sickly smile across London's sky.
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Certainty
There are more people alive now than have ever lived - I read that somewhere and instantly thought it impossible but if it were to be true, I wonder that, if we keep living this fast, no-one will have time to die/I've met people whose lovers died in war and I've wondered what this helplessness could be like - one minute there's a whole life entwined with yours and the next, just a space and scattered clues/When I watch old films in which animals appear, I get sad because those animals are certainly dead now - and that certainty prompts my private epitaph and I have to say it out loud : "That dog is dead, that cat is dead, that horse is dead..."
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Piano Magic, a wonderful new discovery.
