Local gentry pass around her _ One of you now. She likes the cane
field forbearance of shires, Mt. elsewhere in Mozart moments.
For other metaphors and worlds who would not scratch away
at ground bird humming weeds undraining furrow seeds.
Tells no one of one dog dream retracking : lost 'n' dressed in
city streets pushing a red wheel barrow, ear rings snagged in old
North hair extensions; while vowels leave lungs target circling,
lips measure their poured proper tea.
What happened to your bundle, county lab coats poke; don't you
walkers cross the desert with knotted bundle?
She's up for stuff
like that : didn't walk didn't cross I flew . and my baggage fell
somewhere over the ocean if you must know.
In a silk chamber, ripe contractions pinging, Come Soon
uncramps, kicks warn : birth roots lease hold strain there
after.
Now do us both a favour, she backs back to the wind, harness
sire my fate, at least for awhile, till I release the old
form new leaf tendency.
Was your prime cut satisfactory, this heritage chef might
table. So much depends on what now? long friends point
grey skies unable.
She could fall through again : compost or pose from cloud
or cave ̶ tell tale seams faux glazed ̶ dot marked Here
Here! head light ending . Not so Sorry? say, Cheerio, then.
– W.W.
VIRGIN WHORE
She wears dark glasses to mask her eyes red
with fear and grief and fury and bliss
but the cold lenses also clear her vision
in these glaring streets which she walks, aware
of the easy horror and sadness
and nonsense and beauty about her, needing
to cringe weep scream bless but merely mumbling,
like the mad woman she's meant to be,
with a voice not her own, though no one's else's,
whose lonely freedom is its one meaning
as rooftops and gutters and pavements
strung together by the words hooked in her flesh
pretend the hooks have never existed.
I listen beneath her breast, read and
sing her dribbling tongue, and score her bleeding feet
and the daily changing lines of her palm.
(from "Within The Wind" © by Brian Chan)
FARJOURNEY CARIBBEAN 