Lakey Comess

T/his piece

In this piece I am your family, not a given instant icon
like the Veronica of Jesus.

In this, which precedes
the subsequent piece,
he is her family,
skin-tight agnation,
not an instant icon.

Fine distinction projects

The Veronica of Jesus,
is not like my family;

in this instant piece,
I am given you.

An arbitrary scion
forks out in a given instant.
Icons do not.

Like your family,
Jesus and Veronica,
I am in this piece.

Veronica, an instant-icon,
gave Jesus away, veiled.

Imagine this: a matador’s cape, given away.
I, the matador, pivot

(classic manoeuvre, la Veronica).

Bull passes close, too close.
In this piece: I am not.

Contextual bids,
(like I-am-not),
cheat you,
the given-instant,
your family,
                and an icon
in this,
my piece.

Temperatures drop, tempers rise

Mornings are difficult,
tackling melancholy, left over rage.

So what if conversation disturbs you,
jumping from one topic to another?

Here's a fine one to talk, ring tone ridiculous,
stranger leaves messages, requests call back.

Offers appear "No win, no fee".

Where was the accident? Who is the injured party?

The truth can be summarised,
"Your book was too wrathful for me."

Remove the element of mystery,

                               confront a dry river bed,
weigh in on consequences.

Hubris doesn’t bake our daily crust.

Best penmanship forward,
let’s agree on reconciliation,
but first:

Pick me out of a crowd.

… … …

We’re losing ideas as fast as we generate them.
Five messages a day! (Oh, my sweet island drama).

Still able to get up a full head of steam?
Have a conversation in Yiddish with a contemporary.

Is there a deeper relationship, feigning true camaraderie?
Why (then) the apology preceding atonement?

… … …

Windows are shut. Temperature sharpens.
Nationalism crumbles, dust-like.

Endings become continuations in a heartbeat.
Reason prevails. We still have ourselves.


Description waits in grandiose retreat,
reckless end of a week comes off night shift, weakens
perceptions of controversy, fog, fully formed.

Start from a red note period, language pulled out of your hands,
astounding spires, the dying year.

Once a week broadcast, alive and kicking the choir.
Non-stop ferocity, one (after another), breath, taking chords.

Floodlit burial ground, arcane, you said. Peculiar.

It was weird. Should have known, if not imagined the portrait.
Amusing for the sultan, talking about books, model of restraint.

Adjusted his picture, recovered film,
stunning variations in the vestry.

That was one interpretation.

Stockpiling flippancy

                               monotonic remarks,
currency in slumber, less lull.

Shallow thoughts lead to an alphabet,
soulful salon of call and response.

Not quite a citizen of
lantern lit circles,

tutored by querulous instance,
cases in point, glowing comment.

Moods unsettle in sameness, squaring the whole.

Foresight is satisfying tail-side of denial.
Restraint leads narrative through shadow and scorn.

Pentagram for your thoughts?

Lakey Comess, born U S A in 1948, has lived in Israel, South Africa and the Orkney Islands in Scotland and now lives in Glasgow. She has contributed to Versal, Big Bridge, Gulf Stream, Milk, Hutt, Otoliths, Hamilton Stone Review, Mad Hatters' Review blog, On Barcelona blog and other publications, also as Lakey Teasdale.
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