Sky robes of Celeste sparkle in winter’s breath Studded with polished buttons of silver stars Swish of indigo silk cyclorama the smile of a golden crescent the Plough edged with violet lace
Tree roots dormant Oak stasis in weathered rocks The sleeping burrow of tiny worms await yet the cemetery carries whispers of rich veined springs
From emerald to russet the chlorophyll fades as centuries turn yet through frost iced ancestors’ soil beloved snowdrops peep…
Sandalwood curls conjure the labyrinth of memory
We dance with our ancestors to a silent tune We listen to their gift of crimson treasure pulsing their song lit by her moon
Bikini clad dip into giant moving body of blue without flinching yet he flinched Memories of a science lesson where you had to draw the digestive system from memory make a list of pieces then jig-saw them in to the red nosed man in Operation so if you unravelled the gut it would stretch around four houses and all that time she sat in warm blood thinking it was a bit of warm wee and the old school cleaner got her a hammock pad and said it’s your period
Uncle Jonathon strode in like he was in a movie Her dainty breaststroke versus his front crawl head turning to a macho rhythmic gasp to check if each side of the sea was still there thinking of the coffee dribble by the kettle He was thinking of his sums The end of the tax year to take his mind off the bikini Tables, graphs, pi squared, algebraic muddles, leaky pens, computer screens Pens in Star Trek cups Pencils with dirty cracked erasers like his eye wrinkles Formulations, cogitations, lines of logic Timetables, clients, pound signs. That coffee dribble has been there since last week Then he thought of the chimney that he could fix when he got paid. Front crawl
She thought more of guts, liver, heart and spleen Holding hands, the beating heart Memento mori Forcing blood as a blanket of soothe Where was the list of things to jigsaw in?
My poem, Dead Hand, from Solitary Child: Friend of Immortals, translated by Chandra Gurung, is published by Sabdha Sanyohan. Dead Hand is a tribute to Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte, about a passionate yet destructive love that transcends death. The poem also is performed by Fall in Green, on our album, Apocalypse of Clowns, with music and visual art by Mark Sheeky.
Dead Hand
Night On the moor Ragged as you were I saw you through the cracked window Where my dead hand touched yours Where my name was etched in three on the wooden desk
Your dark long locks fought the wind like your soul Heathcliff MY Heathcliff You destroyed everything
Yes, I became a lady, yet, I loved Edgar not it was always you
Your face I saw when I tangled in flesh trying to make a hybrid us with the wrong man
You walk this earth without me, yet I walk with you in you
I look into your eyes of pain and I weep until you return to me
In Greenwood, studded with crab and perry, out of tempest mind tumbled Caliban. So say yeomen of sixteenth century, ‘Bring thee where the crabs grow,’ said the madman. Drinking proverbial acidity, Gossip’s Bowl was spice sipped by Bidford folk in restaurants of ancient forestry acid draughts intoxicate shallow jokes. But three crabbed months had soured themselves to death. ‘He’ll never have Miranda,’ they concurred. The Bidford souls muttered under their breath ‘Goddess and a madman?’ with spoon they stirred. ‘Whose apple thou art, gem grown from deep root?’ ‘Yours, but I will never bear sweet fruit.’
Near the gushing Jordansprudel and the high green hair of the ginko is an antique shop set in palatial grounds
Herr Kasperle sits next to the Polyphony turntable on a black wooden box Watches tourists pass by the score of Schubert as cut glass tulips sparkle in the window
Layered Deutsche Mark faces, cheek to cheek shiver with dust rain as the door creaks Kaleidoscope hides the meaning of life in peephole spiral jewels Encyclopedic postcards of People-Proving-Their-Joy with a rushed hand
Woman coughs as she descends the spiral staircase Russian sickle jacket hides behind the door The owner adjusts his pince-nez
Ghosts hear echoes of red hammer taps Carved head tilts, stares Herr Kasperle blinks dreams of his string ancestors Shadow, Tabletop, Glove Finger, Stick, Ventriloquist The entertaining races Curriculum Vitae displays appearances in Faust Street theatre in a frayed patchwork waistcoat Glued beard en pointe Makeshift stages conjure children’s gazes
Herr Kasperle repeats his line: A man sees in the world what he carries in his heart
Desperate clutch of memento to prolong pilgrimage I hold your wooden hand I have to take you home
VOICEOVER Meine Damen, Herren und Kinde Folge mir…
AERIAL SHOT Under the belled tower We wait for the clockwork Rattenfänger
ZOOM Staccato chug Brass feather in cap Cold flute lips call coloured shadows of what was…
Our past has tails that swish in the mud
Shaky Super Eight sketches of the 70s Our Past Existed (PG, 118 minutes)
A splice of plastic eidetic Encode, store, retain, recall Have you got capacity?
Splice Brain as projector to an outdoor screen Orange flames from neurons fire original vignettes from a haphazard storyboard STOP AT 5:31: Graceful Mutti Chiffon siren swish Smoke screen of Uncle Georg’s cigar Chime of the first bell Backlight of Vater’s steady hand Black onyx glints
SLOMO Eyelashes flutter as manicured nail flicks ash Pigtailed girls hold hands and look up to the belled tower Leiderhosen with embroidered edelweiss
MASTER SHOT of the Rattenfänger Folge mir…
Our Present Exists (18, Infinity)
STOP AT MEMORY #85647923788… We watch the cartoon in Hameln Synchronised whiskered faces poke through holey käse Choreographed ballet-pointe gallop I like cartoons, you said. I didn’t know. Is he a good man or a bad man? EYELINE MATCHING ON RATTENFÄNGER I didn’t know. Where do all the lost neurons go?
Hypnotised kinder skipping towards Koppelburg mountain cave CROSS CUT To the crippled boy who slings his crutches Cartwheels to…
MONTAGE -Candy Heaven (away from carpentry bondage) -The Grim Reaper (rescued from plague, under his cloak, like stolen watches) -The Teutonic Land (Landowner gathers orphans, like hay bails, legs flailing) -The River Weser (drowned with the rats because of anger issues towards the cowboy mayor)
Is he a good man or a bad man? Folge mir…
Now, imagine our What-Was-Vignettes as others saw Not from your eyes, from his eyes, then her eyes, then their eyes Aerial, behind, extreme long shot from a bird 1974 Hameln town hall RUMBLE THUNDERSHEET Six family members’ vignettes of the same moment Stretch our sketches into patchwork perspectives Fact and fiction splices Swishing tails in mud
Create you own theater Clapperboard snap That’s a wrap.
