When, in languid times, you reach into your mind

for companions intemperate

to share the fruits of summer succulence,

will my face float into view

and hover (ever the tantalising gadfly)

or will it stay Titanically submerged

under the wet weight of wavers-not-drowners?

In the mythical winters of the sheepish plains,

when even marrow moves slowly in your bones

(a snail’s pace ahead of frozen eternity),

will an episodic warmth sometimes begin,

in some vague cavity holding the memory of my voice?

Or will it’s muffled cadence be insulated, baffled,

by the distancing thickness of space?

While mixing in the ever concentric circles of the Academy,

where deviance is confined to sexual proclivity

and the eccentricities of wine,

will you recall my four-letter irreverence

and unformed sceptic passion

or will these be condemned to that graveyard of logicians,

the Follies of Youth?

Will I still be with you

when I am not before your eyes,

much as I used to slouch into view at celebrations

and moments of importunity?

And will my words remain in your worldly possession,

pin-holed and posted

on the notice board of your life?

I can but say

I damn well better be!

Last week the death panic came again,

just as I was drifting off to sleep

or to die?

No! (turning over quickly and opening my eyes)

No! Not yet, it’s not fair!

I haven’t had time to …

(what?)

… unfail my true purpose in life

(which is..?)

Give me more time

(who the hell am I talking to?)

Give me time and I will be yours forever

and this will be my mantra:

Tomorrow I will love selflessly

Tomorrow I will labour willingly

Tomorrow I will seek joy and not despair

The mantra complete,

I felt calmer.

Last night, when the panic came again,

and again Death chewed up Hope

and spat it in my face,

I was ready.

Chanting my mantra,

like holding a crucifix in front of me,

until Death retreated.

But …

who the hell am I talking to?

In my laboratory,

I apply laser technology,

to take thinner and thinner slices of my past life

and subject them to historical re-engineering.

Having perfected my technique,

I’m sending in my clone to clear up the mess.

My future is now made from scraps of DNA

salvaged from the last of my unsullied remnants.

Unfortunately,

its behaviour will be so unrecognisable

you might shoot me as an alien impostor.

But at least I’d die perfected.

Except for your memories.

The cheque arrived

like mail to the wrong address.

(No-one of those dollars lives here.)

Paying the mortgage

you expect whistles and bells

(or at least the screen to play “We’re In The Money”)

but it doesn’t blink.

A teller’s smile seems less than adequate.

Walking into a home you now own,

nothing has changed.

Where is solidity exuded at these times?

Who does the ceremonial laying on of hands

to the newly entitled?

Is playing the game reward unto itself?

You leave what’s left be rolled over

and it all rolls over you

and you leave the faintest of imprints on the roadway.

You gathered with all your workmates for farewells

(was that all, it seemed more!)

and yes, they hated to see you go

and not them.

And in two weeks

your gossip is hopelessly out of date,

your opinions are ill-informed,

your phone-calls are left on hold

and then not returned.

You have de-constructed.

You have exchanged piscatorial irrelevance

in a leaking pond

for lone voyaging

on a diluted sea of possibilities.

So you write.

You write more,

you write less,

you write, more or less,

until you are writely alone.

And isn’t this how you always wanted it to be?

Undisputed master of your destiny?

But

who do you blame now?

We met, straggling in like Brown’s cows,

approximating the appointed time.

We talked in arcane codes of acronym,

approximating the agenda.

Skillfully sliding over specifics,

we adjourned matters, pending further information.

Making sly digs at absent colleagues,

we wallowed in gossip

and angst for the future we were avoiding.

There was no cuppa at the end; cost-cutting!

So we took an early minute;

too late to go back to the office now,

hardly worth it really.

Went to the pub

and talked about the fubbin’ useless gumn’t

and the fubbin’ useless d’par’mnt

and all these fubbin’ useless meetings

until some smartarse said,

‘whyn’t we do somethin’ about it?’

And we said

‘alright, we will!’

and next month

we finished even earlier.

 

Licensed to solicit,

I ply my trade among the managerial class

that like to delegate their bastardry.

 

One gets my number from a satisfied customer

or I may be seen,

a silken jargon-tattooed thigh,

or a well-researched décolletage,’

exposed at all the right conferences.

 

Naturally, there are dangers;

a political basher here,

an accountability pervert there,

but nothing that can’t be handled

with a first draft ‘off the back of a truck’.

 

So while they meet my hourly rate

and introduce me to their friends

and pretend I’m one of the crowd,

I’ll practice safe conclusions,

and the contracts will go on.

 

The world may go unsaved

but at least it keeps me

and them

off the streets.

It’s the same train.

Changing carriages hasn’t altered that.

But now the impenetrable darkness of tunnels

is neutralised by a hand reached for secretly

and the knowledge of the imminent re-emergence

of familiar faces in the light.

It is possible to disembark at the station of your choice

or, in an emergency, pull the cord

and trudge off into unmarked territory,

ignoring the shaking fists of railway staff.

But no; for the time being

familiarity is more potent than adventure.

It is still permitted to re-trace your steps

and peer into carriages where you once sat.

In some your space may even still be vacant,

amongst those who are, and will remain, unmoved.

In others your seat is now occupied and

despite the comforting smiles of those you know,

it will remain that way.

Eventually,

you must return to your new-chosen cubicle,

to weather report conversations,

to standard gauge concepts

and to waiting patiently

for the dawn

of the courage to get off.

We inherited each other,

through our partners.

Sympatico in our independent couplings,

we come and go through comfortable back doors.

We trudge spouseless fairways;

you in striking composure,

me in decomposing childhood,

one hitting a ball, the other a concept.

We are golfing mates, with intellects on hold,

waiting for God to appear

and to be shirt-fronted.

We are the corporate traders

of Machiavellian minutiae and managerial mayhem,

therapising our petit four with another crisp champagne.

You, the firm, lucid seeker;

me, the loose, loquacious dilettante,

but both guarding a world of secrets

never to be shared elsewhere.

I’m not sure I really know you

but you have such a familial face.

In popular history

the alchemist was a figure of mystical greed

in dark workshops,

forever reducing the base

in the search for gold,

‘midst mumbled incantations

and closely guarded formulae.

Her history

is one of worldly spendthrift,

perceiving that gold

is the base with the lights on

and shouting the obvious

to the oblivious

from the rooftops,

in words of one syllable like

‘love’.

The alchemist of old

was frustrated by the poverty of iron.

She

is frustrated by the poverty of light.

Stop me if you’ve heard this

but there’s this woman, see,

and she walks into this bloke’s life

(bold as brass)

and she marches up to him and goes

“I’ll have a life friendship, thanks”.

And this bloke goes,

“Sorry, only got ships that pass in the night friendships;

fresh out of life”.

So this woman goes,

“Well, I’ll wait ’til you get one in”.

And the bloke goes,

“Nar, don’t stock ’em any more;

they’re always breakin’ down

and they cost too much to repair”.

So the woman goes,

“Well, I’ll make one then.

I’ve got a bit of spare love

and a mattress on the floor

and a corkscrew

and a high boredom threshold”.

And the bloke goes,

“Alright, alright, but there’s a few conditions”.

So she goes, she goes,

(listen to this, you’ll love this!)

she goes

away.