Tarns Of Mustard

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Hot Coals

on June 07, 2010

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Defiling your collection of constellations
you crushed the stars like crisps,
spread a trail between us.

I would do anything for you
but I am barefoot.

2010

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Left Luggage

Suitcase the First A toothbrush, each bristle a hair of Methuselah’s beard. Shaving cream, brown as heroin. Four serrated teeth of a Great White. Liberation Through Hearing During the Intermediate State, for the train. My two corneas. Socks. Inhibitions, for exhibitions. Wooden beams. The curdled milk of Cleopatra; suncream. Frederick the First's love of Equus. Carrion, as currency. The puzzlement of a parentless toddler at a closed supermarket. Board games. A comb in the shape of a Claudius smile. A towel for sunbathing in Golgotha. Suitcase the Second A toothbrush, each bristle the laughter of antediluvians. The bovine frustration and hedonistic inclination of tourists. The sandals of pilgrims. The screams of a Burundi transit centre. The whispers of Stalinist Russia, for my hair. People in glass houses. Water wings, one for each concentric circle. National debt. Bill Buckley's unfinished cryptic crosswords. Carry-on A round of drinks. A

On Society

Freedom is the freedom to say that two plus two make four. If that is granted, all else follows. George Orwell I agree that two times two makes four is an excellent thing; but if we are dispensing praise, then two times two makes five is sometimes a most charming little thing as well. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

In Which a Nightclub Bouncer Dreams of Odin

Magistrate of lost souls, curated bicep ranged, clouting the clouds. Loud, lout. Out. Imparts the mortar, banners, spittle, ignominy and torture for love of his daughters. Guards his Asgard, with hardened gait and half and half, for garlanded gobdaws who, as mere men, fickle as a windsock, locomotively forget him, mishear his steed's trample.

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