Lakey Comess
A turn up for the journal,
torn between either you like it or you don't, weird substitutes,
genetic markers, pre-dispositions hung out to dry on a word-worn line.
Daily extravagance combines with dusty mystical practices, softened clay.
Try it on in another media, write it backwards over a bowl of rose petals,
collected objects of compelling characteristics. Spell binding.
Eyes, too close together, clearly doesn't appreciate sobriety,
pushes past logic into a whole other realm, self-consciously examining stars.
Note: by the time one sees them, they are already extinguished, far gone.
That's the quick way back to past addictions, masking real problems.
It's a beautiful day out there, if only you could truly capture a moment.
Weekday trenches
Encapsulated smudged graphite, startled grids, compromised rock,
corrected comets, night flying pavements, ordinary conversation in an uninterrupted café.
Chess piece (marching remnant, immaculately released hot frisson) faces east. Someone wants to interpret a carnival dissertation, interact with a garrotted apple. Cold Brig o’ Dread boy-and-girl beauty plays on lute.
Half-life, motioning in stars, shifting policies, skull capped and hidden in leaves. Luckless watches the moon, formally decked out, inescapable barter. Your afternoon's pulled up from the weekday trenches, skilfully luring the flagons, trading on wooden nickels.
Echoing hearts, join in repose,
Assyrian water wishing the end, some forever boulder.
New story, pain in the old country.
Old pain, story in the new country.
Whispering topography, ensemble discomfiture.
Consider the backyard point, foundation stone, purple and gold.
Information, standardization and co-ordinates may leave when they have tendered their donors, abjuring poppies. Minor industries, and the fine, ancient craft, now dying, go last.
Innocence, stung, bruised, improbably drifts time. Nothing surrounds occupation, isolation, skulking and conscious, high resolution, distilled.
Currents, these are help-us-and-tell, currents.
Precision gunshot, alleluia,
might, main and contortion.
Beautiful pendants and spirits flutter,
filling the streets, dwindling exits.
Buttons fly off.
That is some dust.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
your house is on fire and your children are gone.
Too many questions
for which you hold answers on scraps of torn paper.
Gather these together to fashion a shield.
In less than an hour, hessian wrapped armature has been coated in plaster,
making monkey of scraps. Lipstick stain is torn from painstaking portraiture.
Rain has been forecast likely as small girl whizzes by on a brand new scooter.
Arms grasp bouquet of rights to privacy.
Any reasonable discussion (by right)
ought to include full disclosure of those you have breached.
We sit in silence while time runs out granular from hour glass.
Avert your gaze when you have seen enough or too much.
Someone has wiped red off the mouth of a living sculpture.
Brief history of pain,
by product of real diagnosis, undisclosed to any other, hidden in some screen.
It doesn't work in words. We all wish we could help.
Ω
Avoiding the problem or just looking for a waterproof map?
Vague references dot ordnance, painstakingly surveyed, wasting no time on trivial past-time.
Ω
Letters, destined for audience are exchanged, redacted, compiled according to date.
Omissions intrigue, impulse goes awry, bent in essence.
Invasion transcended completely, crushing instinct,
leaving sticky traces all over Gothic revival.
Ω
Stranger interludes counteract political hogwash and swill.
When you're engaged, you're all out of reasons, stuck in the perfect place.
Symptoms aren't the whole picture in hunt for the cure.
Ω
Coordinates, too, don't tell the whole story. Global psychosis comes into it.
Listen to uncommon ambient sound for a moment.
Dedicate resonance to third parties, courageously picking at nits.
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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A turn up for the journal,
torn between either you like it or you don't, weird substitutes,
genetic markers, pre-dispositions hung out to dry on a word-worn line.
Daily extravagance combines with dusty mystical practices, softened clay.
Try it on in another media, write it backwards over a bowl of rose petals,
collected objects of compelling characteristics. Spell binding.
Eyes, too close together, clearly doesn't appreciate sobriety,
pushes past logic into a whole other realm, self-consciously examining stars.
Note: by the time one sees them, they are already extinguished, far gone.
That's the quick way back to past addictions, masking real problems.
It's a beautiful day out there, if only you could truly capture a moment.
Weekday trenches
Encapsulated smudged graphite, startled grids, compromised rock,
corrected comets, night flying pavements, ordinary conversation in an uninterrupted café.
Chess piece (marching remnant, immaculately released hot frisson) faces east. Someone wants to interpret a carnival dissertation, interact with a garrotted apple. Cold Brig o’ Dread boy-and-girl beauty plays on lute.
Half-life, motioning in stars, shifting policies, skull capped and hidden in leaves. Luckless watches the moon, formally decked out, inescapable barter. Your afternoon's pulled up from the weekday trenches, skilfully luring the flagons, trading on wooden nickels.
Echoing hearts, join in repose,
Assyrian water wishing the end, some forever boulder.
New story, pain in the old country.
Old pain, story in the new country.
Whispering topography, ensemble discomfiture.
Consider the backyard point, foundation stone, purple and gold.
Information, standardization and co-ordinates may leave when they have tendered their donors, abjuring poppies. Minor industries, and the fine, ancient craft, now dying, go last.
Innocence, stung, bruised, improbably drifts time. Nothing surrounds occupation, isolation, skulking and conscious, high resolution, distilled.
Currents, these are help-us-and-tell, currents.
Precision gunshot, alleluia,
might, main and contortion.
Beautiful pendants and spirits flutter,
filling the streets, dwindling exits.
Buttons fly off.
That is some dust.
Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,
your house is on fire and your children are gone.
Too many questions
for which you hold answers on scraps of torn paper.
Gather these together to fashion a shield.
In less than an hour, hessian wrapped armature has been coated in plaster,
making monkey of scraps. Lipstick stain is torn from painstaking portraiture.
Rain has been forecast likely as small girl whizzes by on a brand new scooter.
Arms grasp bouquet of rights to privacy.
Any reasonable discussion (by right)
ought to include full disclosure of those you have breached.
We sit in silence while time runs out granular from hour glass.
Avert your gaze when you have seen enough or too much.
Someone has wiped red off the mouth of a living sculpture.
Brief history of pain,
by product of real diagnosis, undisclosed to any other, hidden in some screen.
It doesn't work in words. We all wish we could help.
Avoiding the problem or just looking for a waterproof map?
Vague references dot ordnance, painstakingly surveyed, wasting no time on trivial past-time.
Letters, destined for audience are exchanged, redacted, compiled according to date.
Omissions intrigue, impulse goes awry, bent in essence.
Invasion transcended completely, crushing instinct,
leaving sticky traces all over Gothic revival.
Stranger interludes counteract political hogwash and swill.
When you're engaged, you're all out of reasons, stuck in the perfect place.
Symptoms aren't the whole picture in hunt for the cure.
Coordinates, too, don't tell the whole story. Global psychosis comes into it.
Listen to uncommon ambient sound for a moment.
Dedicate resonance to third parties, courageously picking at nits.
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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