Lakey Comess

Visuals of the day

                                              incorporate spider's web, encrusted in ice,
garlands on sculpture, asteroids, close-ups of precious metals.

There at your feet, marker for dead child of a much loved poet.
One last hurrah bids fare-thee-well to a hungry contender.

Isn't it time to kiss your back? Are you leaving again/forever?
Aurora in light-green swirling pattern might just convince you to stay.

Add charcoal to matt greasepaint; transform your self into a living statue.
Go for the high risk, faultlessly photogenic option.

Another transmission

                               replays dark, heavy mezzo,
recreating an uprising, summoning sarcasm from depths
                               of score for small choir. Describe soul.

Friends shouldn't ever hold grudges.
Whole areas are hidden under two feet of snow.

Are you cold? Shouldn't we be speaking more, preferably closer?

Who measures death crotch to instep,
reinforces gussets, as applicable?

Absolutely fool proof, the latest in eternal suiting.

Days begin in melt and thaw,
pond overflows onto street,
speeding vehicles burst through sheet of water,
no pity for passers-by.

Sufficiency greets troubled dawn,
strange hieroglyphics on snow-path
mark excursion of ambitious crow.

Show lost lustre in Act I, when symptoms
of group exploitation appeared on the boards.

Tendency was infantile, though last night's dreams
were truly confusing. Keys figured in locked doors,
deceased father held live conversation with spouse.

Silence overwhelms absence of echo.
Now you're talking.

Concepts of home are reduced to eastern location,
film work stalks audience, influences unseen.

Day after day was built on weakness of prey.
How do you feel now? Still unsatiated?

Tomorrow's romantic love is the same as yesterday's,
obsessive, perniciously undermining flawed existence.

These days companionship is watched word,
less distorting than slavering over excuses.

Don't tell me widows are consumed by their own words.
I haven't quit speaking.

St Valentine, preceded by anniversary tributes to a dead poet.
She shrugged off her life. At last you've stopped beating her husband.

Moving to places with more natural light,

                cherry blossoms, splinters of green glass,
folk of an indeterminate old age and disposition.

It's not about courage, it's all about getting up,
dressed and out of the house every morning.

Who do you trust most with your secrets?
Do you function as well as can be expected, no hope of change,
desire withered like so many parched dreams?

How trendy are your politics, left or right?
How pure are your thoughts, shrunken in vowels?
Have you washed out your mouth lately?

Are you missing imperative as well as your back teeth?
Describe in full colour detail, your special requirements.

Find a gem on path, amongst fallen petals.
Penny for your confidences, or are they worth less,
completely ridiculous?

Sundry lives are strikingly similar, inexorably twined.
Instinct tells us a lot.



This piece is personal,
someone you knew, someone involved,
trapped, watching a moving picture,
broken houses,
                shots of destruction
in your back yard.


Ideas include the world
(in anyone's view),
reckoning tests for humanity,
cynical sound bites, suffering fatigue,
feelings of violation,
years out, drained by iniquitous activity,
radical changes.


Aging moves one step closer to proverbs,
scored out in living any number of days.


Accusations of failure appear large on horizon.
Someone is disappointed; others hide faces, shamed.


The human condition threatens endings,
                beginning in recrimination,
past performance, past indignity,
past the participle, broken wings.

Daily experiments in living
are doomed to extinction.

Somewhere, a heart is broken.
Pick up the shards.

They may be useful in installation.

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, Sidereality, Milk, Hutt, Otoliths, Hamilton Stone Review, Mad Hatters' Review blog, On Barcelona blog and other publications, also as Lakey Teasdale.
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