By | 1 June 2022


‘Angels fill me with horror …’ Jean Genet
‘Every angel is terrifying …’ Rainier Maria Rilke

A VISION OF FORCE whips velvet thru the afternoon.
there you are, the cryptographer. Your own universe
of sumptuary law. Passing heads splatter on the ceiling of the sky.
Yes, you live a wageless life,
busting the balls of the ego services. They indulge you! Call you up!
What chaotic bitch is here rendered,
Like TV royalty. The wounded loser in a marital duel,
Not quite instrumental to the forces of historical good. But what taste. In your orbit,
the best of the bees are jealous; the rats experience regret;
Now, sweetie, baby one,
make yourself ready in the pit.

Long lunch. Martini hour. Time passes, to the tune of a sermon
on the nature of fire, delivered in tones …
You are a machine for genius. A subset of the human type;
disaster’s point of reference. You cannot sustain yourself without invention.
Nobody has it all. You have ordered the crab. So elegantly. My god…
Later, in your garret, dream of this,
before returning to that dull beast,
the violent costume of your life. Awful. So ugly,
dragging that thing around…

Fretting, gently. Danger touches all.
Your teeth are pink enamel. Your neck is the size of a swan. The tip of your toe
wiggles. You gave up so much to be here.
Gestures in a cot, toilet bleach, hunting in the bushes for a lost ring,
plotting to find yourself dead there. Despite all the helpful suggestions.
It was too much. You thought softly
Of your oozing face beneath the petals. Like the rug beneath their feet …
No! Now, you are the lover of the long lunch. You’ll die with dignity.
If not that … distinction. You will keep yourself like a kitten. Your monstrous soul.
You’ll keep it in. Like fat blooming from a corset.
You would like to smile. But you are grinning…

Exhaustion is a lifestyle belief. You are the puppet of optimisms,
issuing from the air like milk. Borne accidentally towards an art form,
You are nervous in this higher order; this rapturous furor. You work so hard …
If it is true, they are always receptive, is the angel a poet? You commune with the infinite,
but you are faking it. Supple as a whiplash,
Your personality a contested border …
My god, you are boring. Make nothing happen. You pierce the future … dully …
oh… those luminaries of heaven — bad actors.
Are you of their number? Do you hear the tinny whimper of their voices — a thousand at once?
Can you make yourself out? It is difficult. There is so little of each sound …

You lie in a bath like an era. Brimming.
It’s a fine balance, having it all. Burning out on the leopardskin carpet. Prattling on.
Not declaring the hollow origins of your objections,
cat-footed, squirming around in the double bed,
degradation, such is your lot. You are half in love with what you hate.
Oh, angel. Bend backwards
towards heaven. You are going home.

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