March
2007
October! October! Why Is’t October?
Because the boys are on their bikes,
Because the boys are on their bikes!
The misery invites
And the misery invites
No drastic action!
Acceptance is admiration,
Admire your state!
Futility dances hand in hand
With your wilting lusts,
Your misplaced desires!
The way to go, the way to go
(Like you don’t know, like you don’t know)
Is bite the bullet, rope it, pull it,
Wrap it round your red raw throat,
Tighter tighter, you mustn’t smile!
Else hide your head in a rabbit’s hole.
He shouldn’t mind, by Frith;
Your fondest wish, you’ll get her goat,
And all because the red raw throat
Is tangled in the doorway
With the bloody briars;
For ’tis October,
the autumnal time,
When you must sup on
acorn wine,
And frolic in your fading and
Don’t light fires, listen to
Town criers
At the tolling of the bell
And at the bailing out of Hell,
October, dismal, never spoke
Your name before
So crisp, yourself lightly,
This is the lesser year.
When are we vacuous,
When more expansive
Than when falling,
Dropping metaphors and
listening to each other
without trying?
Ah, trying -
There’s a pancake worthless to toss,
And October leaves no survivors
Who fight her fading light -
Failing light,
The winter coming, endless night
Into your cloth
Seeps seed so deep,
Clawing and crawling into tubes,
Clawing and crawling;
Terrible mirth;
You’re broken since birth,
And all this said,
Don’t ship your misery
Into my waters,
Ship nothing to me but daughters
You’ve collected on the Earth.
Are you not sure now?
Is this your time?
Mocking little creeper bird,
You can’t reap October,
She’s poison;
Yes, poison, maybe, fearfully here,
You’re watching promises of the
Spring grown ripe (unfulfilled)
In the summer,
Slip in sullen frost
From the lunar landscape,
Autumn apples bear news not fruit,
Of cold, of lasting years.
New memories of the past,
It’s time for the big fast,
Bouncing and full skimmed,
A veritable spring, yet brown,
This is the landscape,
The soil-maid,
She pines, she’s poison.
Yes, October, you, and I’m addressing you,
Wing, first wing of the destroyer,
Bidden to wipe the slate,
Lick clean the plate,
And what is poison, then,
But the promise, the threat,
The promise to start again?
Wash and slacken,
Unbuckle those boards,
Of tired country dancing halls,
Ache yourself in,
Peel those shells,
This is memory time,
Break or forget your promises;
Your promises, your misery
Is a conifer
And you don’t tell secrets,
Nothing to October.
(from “Wolfblood”)
It should be made clear that this was written in collaboration with Patrick Otley, in the Bodega, with joy in our satchels. I hate to take credit where credit is only half-due.