Houdini and I
In this day of dreams
on the Treasure Island
Hero's epic, Nation's hurt
we draw people we have
no memory of.
My handcuff king
emerges from the sea.
Failure means a drowning death
locks. chains, ropes and glass.
Torture cell metamorphosis
I'm the falling man
I'm the cabaret man.
See the struggle of hands
phalanges, plated against trysts
of those who would break me.
Your man of a thousand prayers.
Adored Houdini would he not only die.
My public jackals, eyes upturned to heaven
waiting for suffocation to catch me –
Meeting the Philosophers
for Sally Perry
It could always be that
this form of thinking
never suited anybody.
How can the logic of a thought
communicate itself in the ice-plant vista
of a Californian sidewalk?
And if dogs have no expressed wishes
except possibly the quick way
of a tale untold – so be it.
I worry that a nice derangement of epitaphs
might mean exactly that.
The problem of whose language to know
is a figure of frenzy for two faces.
An Cueleator- y Jac
could be the trump card.
As you question those who might play
and ignite the problem of mind,
we could ignore their painful prepositions
and instead marshal war against, or at,
the league of bald headed men.
In this land of giants and mice,
methods and madness,
Dogs in booties, gee up horses
falling down cobbles.
The flight of blackbirds through forests
frames the slow chords of bitterns in Banna.
Although we could always sail
in a frying pan past Kidwelly
where sweets are a halfpenny,
and all good news starts
with an old lady’s face,
I prefer children sleeping
tonight always thinking of tomorrow.
Unless of course Jac-y-Do
brings the minstrelsy of one
to play its part with butterflies selling beans,
monkeys in a photo shoot,
obstreperous cockerels and pigs buying tea.
Go Go Go
Ho Ho Ho
Hee Hee Hee.