A day in the acre of sin

 

Part (1)

Donne said, you gotta be here for me. You give me my numbness to swaddle me. Dependent on you to inch me ideas away from pertinent reminders of self…
even crack the whip, see there, whack…
do as I say…
I’m muddled so…
all while rain tell its own story of relentless and fucking hellish fall and fall and fall…
so the stroke me up, stoke me up whimpering of the ones who must be entertained…
I’m sticking to the in and out of simple breathing…
the just listen and just smile…
as when all is boiled and hammered into that little pearl of minerals. Metal. Carbon… (made from the ashes of the dead)
where be an essence too as he can be seen to dance a quickstep on the trot at the bottom of his melting pot…
glowing under yet a fine inspiration from the heart of the great stove of our maker…

Part (2)

 In the twirl, of wond’ring what ye be all about I hear ye say.
Say unto me, I’ll crack th’whip again while I wait…
a man too cruising on the back road of silly tickles n’ giggles…
there now, zooming by as we cuddle up to our ideas about the meat of it…
a turn perhaps to the better slants from the east…
I’ll bet you’re new to this game…
see I bet you’re lacking time anyway. I’m sure the wife sayin’, yeps, I’ll wager you’re free enuff…
the movement of your kropp…
the bending to the push…
mysterious send me out…
blind eyes the bystander…
seeing it, seeing through it…
rapid hand movements telling tales
revealing willingness…
silly possibilities…
and yet still a far cry from safe harbours of me day, me way, me wicked ‘n wounded…
foul mouthed way to pray

Part (3)

Bad estimation, a tugging at the templates from the inward side. Resounding clang and clang of a brain waiting at the train crossing, din, din, ding in echoes of seasons and lives all spent or won or lost here by the crossroads…
and no warning comes to pay its respects, no note from those concerned. No tribute to work done well or even more so…
no not half…
missed the beat and tones lost or fallen off, as if in deliberate calculation, he’s memorizing it all, soft copy of what’s on th’line…
respect for the feelings picked up along the way, and saddled up in fine preparation of that wonderful onslaught we’ve come to call youth at its apex…and the weather must be discussed again, and we’ll do it too as gazing high, fetching eye to top the wofty clouds, a tern or two leaving traces of time in the sky, and we smell the sparkle of river and turn of soil under plough of the moving spirit in days we be part of. In the start of…

Part (4) 

So th’ choice is yours me bro’, so make it worthwhile, said she in all her simplicity…
in a daze of days, I lean casual against the side posts of a highway, highways bound for distances bordering on infinity…
the girls all listen steady, ear to radio and the static, still part of the dilemma, even in this daze of future days…
they play too as they listen…
Playing as girls do, repetition, receptive envelopment…
misjudgement and extreme high flying limitation because of their childbirth abilities…
marking an X on the chart we set up earlier on the smoke stained walls of the place measuring 4×4 and yelling that they be the borders to this world of the young, time of the young…
and now as ever can be said, we take the plunge and fall so sprawled and perfect across this meagre space we have so fondly come to call, our little acre, just our little acre…

time’s up girls, give us release…. (and they did)

Copyright © Graeme Perrin 2023