I dread the death of fate delivered
And scrape up scraps of thoughts dismembered
Long ago, and remember…
Through the creeping bloom of red and wine
The rippled wrinkle and lengthened nipple,
That my lewd and lovely life began in London and
I shouldn’t worry if it’s blurry.
I really shouldn’t. See…
I’m skewing through and making do,
Pleased now with my
Purloined petal of
Present and future,
The ladies: I took and was taken –
A future doctor, we never played doctor,
So I wanted wilder and found it beneath
A belly-dancer in bed then, in no particular order,
A punk-rock muddle and a middle-eastern
Lair of hair.
It was so soft. It was all so soft,
The fumbled feel of female.
I speak too much, though, as my memory goes,
Divulging these shimmering, spotty, spud-like spores,
But they help, you know, they crumple my hell
And soothe the sins of hand on skin
In the dog-shit summer smell.
In stink, in waves, in dark and days,
It comes back, sometimes,
It gnaws and throws itself up,
Grows itself up,
Mows itself down.
In the crepuscular crevasse of consciousness,
In a thumb-split trick of transcendence
I was a child once, in Africa,
And through the deadly dim eyes of buffalo I learned
To fear the indifferent ignorance of inbuilt violence.
But a handful of maggots made my small madness
A malady, a nervous tick that came and went like a drunken devil,
Doing my head in and heading out then
To god knows where.
I was okay, but I don’t know why
It doesn’t come back.
A wildebeest skull. Bougainvilleas. A barometer. They were there.
I saw snakeheads in the painting.
I saw the circumcision masks.
I saw them dancing.
And I can’t forget
The untempered temper of father
Ramming with car and finding crying mother dying
I still don’t know why.
Half-baked, half-changed, remarkable,
Half whittled-away, cleansed, putrefied.
Life is fucked and fantastic. I don’t know why.
Life is fucked and fantastic and
I don’t know why we want to still them, to kill them,
Because memories are monk-like,
Then monkey-like in their devolution,
In their degeneration.
Repaired, retarded, dented, demented
It’s how I survive,
And for me the degradation is fine
For these half-false and fragile fragmentations
These infant histories of mine stitched in
An ultra-fine weave
Of dream and debacle.