Saturday, 23 September 2000

From "Darkness in a Gold Frame"

By John Wilkinson.

Who shipwrecked retrieve their spars, the brands
we’ll expunge, a grille knuckles cross-wise to their ribs,

but our arms, ours, are fastened the other way round,
outstretching digits will go root through scarless skin,
a plastic, a material spirit at bidding heals & self-builds –
rearrange the skyline, come to think. We orectics bestow
on these mounted in our gold frame – employment;
what binds tight to their succession is weary as what
clothes labels call the authentic & genuine, the original.

But how they blunder about. Coherence is their snack,
entireties which would be worth having, but what’s this –
clasp the chest, eat the food, talk the tongue, food has lost
savour & whose words are hobbled, shoes clumped
with earth can’t fleet through interstices a city allows?
Clumsily they would forge whilst we scribble light.
Their violent politics would forge so to make the link

adamantine, their bulk is a residue they carry like a cross.
Idempotency – great stuff, kids. The stamp is a float:
what is skin-deep if not the structure? In sight of stacks
protected by their net warp, they look & chunter on.
That is a pivot poised by wrinkle & tug long-sightedly
Can’t be caught so doing. Better the devil you don’t know
in the midstream will arrest those who serve for a time.

We the orectics squeeze our organs through their purse
& feel something give. That is ripeness like dropsy
whose mini-explosions spit spores to the end of the earth –
not earth, not ends, but a glistening sphere. Why, the
filaments cover the globe out of one naked lightbulb.
Then these are ordained, the only way anyone might live,
3 million migrant workers are ordered home at a flicker.

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