after Michelle Noteboom's Untitled Landscape
Drift in the counter direction and it feels like hail
sweeping over the hills and pounding on your door
when you wastrel, you cannot look down shafts of
wormholes and don’t see the marauding earwigs
centipedes and dung beetles congregating by your step
and foot stool. Look at those events, births and deaths,
luncheons, not as inconsequential to your employment,
to your devotion to history, to three dimensional
coordinates, line and volume, the fallacies of
Cartesian logic and universal growth, rather
as subtle gestures and impulses for oncoming
meteors, cooling stars extra solar activity.
Knee and crag stresses jerk sounds from howling dog
to starling call, yapping percussion and trumpet.
The pheasant possesses the ground upon which it runs
as the altocumulous inhabits the mackerel beds.
Seeking a word to make change I choose voice
the alterotica of accent and localised sensation.
Listen those meandering protons touch more than grass
scattering at mid-latitudes in geomagnetic storms.
My lover’s brassy voice looks within and looks around
my body to find arteries, nerves and receptive pores.
She perforates my restless aura regardless of time
absolutely makes me tongue tied at dinner parties.
Here in this factory with so many men,
stealing moments, a bike pump, some oil.
The bells! The market! The drove! It’s Monday!
Rooting around my beard to find a chisel.
Cecil keeps his pencil behind his ear.
I must burst the bubble in my spirit level.
If you look twice at me I will give you
one finger. No one takes away my fidelity.
Alert to the tactile, brass on wrist,
yet full of mustn’t’s, don’t’s, do, do, do.
Touch me. Touch me without fear.
I will walk towards you if I must.