JEALOUSY

Beneath the honeysuckle hedge,
web-woven from the hammer-head hole
to the spokes wheeled outwards
all of a spinning spiral in a scattered
multiplicity of a myriad mad my selves:
compacted personae in a dire display
of shattered vitreous images.

All eyes, flies’ eyes, spiders’ eyes,
glint and glimmer;
while we linger and listen to a voice
reminiscent of a trod treadle
Singer sewing machine
stitching, stitching ….

“I have woven my own web of despair
I, the spider
I, the fly”

Mosaic hedgerow light
moves no more: fades, fades
gives way to anti-light, to dark …
and with a leap, race, quick
my athlete’s mind is slick again;
kicked alive,
stirring screwed anger,
sifting remorse.

But  in these broken mirror shards
gum tears cannot spill
fill instead the dank abyssal well
of empty bed and bored unease …
[Ah, no …
not bored, No!
Not sad, No!]

With ersatz serenity
and feckless reckless reason
I seal my captivity
and devour
myself.