The other kitchen drawer...

(just all my NaPo entries that I would like to re-everything again)    
the alcoholic mid-morning fields    
young boy dreaming    
nothing will scare you,    
the spoons inside, pool    
to sea and sall screams back to you    
the foolish floats    
as a hook waiting    
a throat of wren singing    
and I am laying now down    
for tomorrow    
baby-milk sky    
the nautilus dried fruit sun    
seeing and sawing    
I magnet the compass    
until the north stops spinning    
the mothe rumbling, mumbling    
 stumbling upstairs    
and the stars are looking    
 to find you (see if you)    
are looking for them    
no white ghost    
the base of your stable eyes    
bedside lamp strokes    
a glint in instinct    
no white ghost mourning    
 all is dusk    
 in your iris blue reservoir    
where game birds hide    
in grey and heaving enemy    
culled, harvested    
 under lightening shotgun flare    
I want to believe    
the kitchen is clean    
the animals are all ok    
that we could proudly    
photograph the pantry    
full full    
we walk talk    
in tall grass    
isles of goose neck,    
black eyes and bergamot humming    
solder the day break to our realities    
routine the planting, the messages    
with hand balm soaking down    
 through the coal seam.    
Foal cloche    
you are foresight  sane, shamed    
drunk on cormorant wine and mail.    
A kingerfisher's tail    
 brushing  over-rained damns,    
your floods are  leaking    
indices codices portfolios    
in asphalt baltic black    
on sweet white older veins    
jungian seed, tilling the five staves off    
I am monocultured, gregorian    
stammering lists abandoned    
the nomenclature of the odd-grey  manes    
hanging in manor windows    
tiered eyes and lashes opening    
I wake to the washed linen    
and hope to re-die early    
In tomorrows’ hands    
sing plainchant    
holy vine-yard fruiting    
the sun-spots healing    
in your skin    
moon-sealing choir-boys    
broken off    
and interrupted      
they will have to come back tomorrow    
for fun    
 I dreamt you returned    
 dreaming pikon    
angry leather Jesuits    
and crystal balls falling    
 their fortune-cookie cracking    
to hear your enfolding    
unable to finger the tomorrow out    
and repost you home    
for these pockets and files    
are soaked to the bone    
All the buried men    
the buildings remain    
sell them up to god    
kneels - to turn the key    
 to the lock    
rises - to house    
 the birds to dust    
in shadows    
of the morning sun    
your artist hands    
 bow and pick:    
the safe in beds    
and last pence    
 from my pocket,    
I note    
 all your blue-grey skies    
as each sun behind    
sheds light to steal the woodland's break.    
I do not know    
 if these shimmers that kick off    
from their leaves    
step towards me    
or against my life besides.    
Under Dashwood’s nose    
the boathouse and long wet hair    
sense of a naked sail and we    
were unashamed, and innocent    
Claude saw one swan guarding the lake    
her own moonlight in space    
he took as a sign    
that afloat    
 in spectral finding awake we transit    
justified stolen land for this night    
our paw and print,    
our oar and landscape    
under mausoleum, statues in    
porcelain psoriasis,    
garden house on isles    
once, for one time    
a swan passed    
into our arms.    
On mica, hunting  and morel turf    
This satchel in morel grey    
and blackberry bloodied maps    
carries a flask,    
 two farming books    
 and the camera.    
Theirs is the singular moment,    
 my own are familiar affairs    
 traversing five gates or seals,    
or dawns of fields breaking,    
or the third damn under    
the hills view, of a child’s    
 view of a valley    
and woods passing    
deeply bird-young    
 in concession    
 For they would have wings    
too  if they hadn't died so young    
and if the air felt honest.    
‘…the white-destined requiring out of sight.’    
I'll dress the wounds    
so take the bitters    
battle and cry,    
you were born    
 under-weight .    
the mass of    
empty windowsills    
 and grave-light    
 you would slip    
 through the fly net    
a drop in the eye    
exhumed in fog    
the fatalism of it all    
as smoke is small    
your name can barely hold    
his fingers    
… look    
'these are small things, Lord,    
that you do not need’    
the nurses shake    
 their tambourines    
and something is  banished    
the magnolia house    
there are noughts lost    
amidst the triangles on the estate    
 the quartets I draw and hang to dry    
to telephone you by    
and the catechism you would floor    
in stone circles    
where you would disappear    
leaving burnt heather    
wet with fire    
there is alder  left in your pheasant's stare    
and chestnutting plumes with chesterfield flare.    
if this djinn and eider drift in northern fronts    
could warm the sole, illustrious bones    
and fox the burrows where my forms re-dawn    
I would kill the hunt, skin their teeth    
and die again    
The king of troglodytes  
black the saw  
white the wire masticated,  
emulated. the wren torn within,  
he heathes from tawned leather and lifts  
a song scolding the soft surface of the sky  
lands of emptied teacups  
the umbered stain of burial soil  
and collection plates  
we lofty stall  
at the moment to play along.  
the risen king, the fallen saint,  
the beaten choirboy protected  
by lightening. Their bed of gorse,  
their leafy fame.  
and the fog brought  
 the wallpaper and  
the candle, the stairway  
and the lane. Unhorned, the belly  
 of the crane pen, on its heat  
and ascetic matchstick  
mounts, stalks and in lime-burn  
outline, balances the sky.  
his scale  
his tick in a box  
with clocks dead stiff  
as lief punk cabinets  
will continue, should continue  
and soon, like him,  
I will have no-one to answer to.  
There are sun-sore documents  
tea-stained and jaundiced  
but we hid them too well away  
we bleached them too clear
Caught on cameras, lifted on their backs
I send you a fortune of space
Serving few in journey to outer forest
Surviving the badly decorated dining room sell-out tour
A human soup calamity
Nobler saints in statues , busting out,
 Throwing it all back into space.
 A ten thousand year epidemic.
A drip, a surviving eternal drip,
Refining a finer mosaic
We loved lift, hide and seek
We are doctors of bad loving.
The conch shell listening, I hear
Rogue states and abandoned churches.

A sense of lapsing dignity

Loss of faith infection…cover my eyes,
Never was a world leader, abundant

The longest day is over, the mislaid
manuscript concludes. Constantly
in the background.

No good thing ever dies, there
Is no castration fear. Avoid reality,
avoid reality – singular men
taking notes.

Await the playground attendant, climb
trees – make noises like apes. There
are no coincidences.

Lying dormant for centuries.
Commitment to a noble future – remain pure.
Written by nomoth
Published | Edited 13th Apr 2021
Author's Note
All the stiff stuff and hoi polloi put together in one convenient spot
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
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