Friday, 11 March 2022


I am not feeling particularly chipper this week, the news is terrible. I honestly could run away and live with The Culture, if they'd have me, if they were real. A post-want, pan galactic society, sounds very attractive as we squander our last chance to limit the rise in greenhouse gasses and we murder people for territorial gain.

Enough! Here's a poem about a dream.

trying on dream clothes

that of course always fit well

and are tailored to perfection

I talked jazz with the assistant

there are worse ways to pass a night

than buying threads

but you wake 

unsatisfied with your tactile wardrobe

no matter how hard you try

on successive nights

the tailors shop eludes you

in that vast city inside your head

Not much to say about it, save that the clothes were very comfortable and well tailored. Threads is old slang for clothes. Here's a rewrite. You can read the previous drafts here and here.

the waiting room

lung wrecked in the wing back chair

my father was marooned in his house

he rewatched the programmes

he did not like the first time round

told me that there was a certain

safety in knowing what comes next

his neural pathways began to short circuit

left in him sleeping an assisted sleep

that brief whisper of exhalation

follows each creaking inhalation

until it is time to cast off

to sail outward into the deep 

I think it's finally there. Thanks must go to the Secret Poets for their amazing feedback and the suggestion of moving the stanzas about. There is a quiet satisfaction at arriving at the final draft [and a title].

Speaking of jazz, as I was in my dream, here's Emma Rawicz. She's got an album out soon. Excellent music.

Until next time.

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