Stride Magazine - www.stridemagazine.co.uk

 

COMPOSE MESSAGE


I.

make it speak, hit it
speech
                           fall to caress lovingly a dead
                           poetry burst its shell & weeps life out
                                                                   
consider the weightless aspect
life in stringy sky & clouds green on faces is a photograph
but a severed also moment I crave
                                         anxious made
wait until explosions disperse, as if no one were around well but
there you are, I canít
                           how I mean is the final surge
                                                      but that exactly unends.


ii.

≠ if that girl, passing, on her mobile phone,
is our mistrusting mistress, time,
and if she looks at me whilst passing
I am involved in the wild smile ≠


iii.

sad, slow exercise, poor mechanic,
off on holes with a broken vehicle,
                                         tinkering at things
like grief & cold
needs to do this only, it tugs at he
                           blinks back the price in
eyes blood, & dead, & urging now towards the final rest
of sudden silence, unexpected, cannot prevent it now


iv.

oceans of days run out to become other trees,
like music, or water in the bath,
forged calm shudders on a daft excuse
& an uncontrollable urge to control
& thus remain
glistening on the cusp of an actual shine on it,
dust polish
coping wild to keep that held memory,
where you hold
sticks, or finger a vine,
disaster of the past, kneading definite memory
as something more suitable to this moment,
which is cast out,
vines, cast stomped grape through
that wringer, your gorgeous split
throat now opening,
        admitting the sour taste you wait for
constantly, open to suggestion.
stop, break it. does how it spill then
mean a thing; when catching up to a point
              in time most wanted for,
                           most caressed & lulled at distance
                           into
being a self desperate wishes. no, stop.
              gathers it in her arms, stooping gathers.
              the poison bush all blossomed & berried
              goes to sit in,
                           picking lyric apart. most
                           natural of exercises,
the sad mechanic picks him up, & a pen,
              forging with sense,
              sense
                           into a place that rules
                           itís in your blood now carousing
merry great abundance, grow & get & better &
                           vitiate, & how
prenuptial, & avoid
                           disturbing, & itís, &
kill a, enervate, make a
              distribution,
                           without hope is hopeless, thatís good,
turn the disaster to a better thing,
              though the pain in me lower
              than is in me needed,
                           budding, disproves this theory.
mostly felt in the heart, its own
                           rhythm collapsing. in a last,
                           moment, lasting
                                                      divided brackets into time.
culling the dainty lyric with a
                           flick of the disjoint
                           wrist, admit
                                                      collisions & peruse them.
fall to your
                           look to your
                                                      instructed bashes out
eyes & all instruments,
                           all records of this remove
                                                      to what happened
when your world was nothing but its axis
                           of wild
                                         disturbed words,
all of which cling to nothing, I will say,
                           how does it go,
                           in your bed at
                                         morning escaping vicious
words that have racked the skull taunting so
                           long ago as to nearly come
                           mocking up the
                                         explains the
this; I see where you are from this protracted
                           filth of action, & I urge
                                         you get your
free urge,
              get free of if they are to be that
              sole      hope;
                                         they must mean what
they must mean all

that you are
my love,
I tell you so.








TWO ANGELS


1 a)

scoping
wildly the brimming curve, toss-eyed,
angelís
nerves beat the plastic
kiss
of the clouds whilst waiting
somnambulant drizzle
the paper paste on
and expect it to stick, this
kind of love     bastes slow juice over and kick
it
backs up the mix of a
beautiful
face


or b)

no sharp
undulled in the windbroken rains,
hard,
sharps, dulls, sharps, every semester a
coal grey lampshade
knocked off the side of your head.
the colours leak out to phosphorous
pools
of patented rainbows, and rainclouds, this

kind of love     gnarl at the end of the garden
refusing to alter the clip of it, wild to suffer,
cross and divide will always take more lines



2)

rubbish night decides sweeping the shock in, swirl
a bone clasped to the chest, bat your tongue no
              more must collect the overawed
              actual bliss keeps distance so
as not to be just; blasted pulses bleeding milk
soft out casings and the speed of love; spurted
              over-fresh a day, some days,
              the railings click uncountable
by; shy away from love and its grateful speed
              which is too great or lasting in speed
nasty flower on her, changes languor to speed
              terrific possibilities such as her speed


what you think alters satisfactory as sugar
moods burn and you sense it. could nothing
break simpler or smooth itself over beaches
or drip straight from the bottle i love you



              © Marianne Morris 2003