Lakey Comess


We couldn't foresee all departures (you make so many),
some as refugee, others as immigrant, ex-pat, nocturnal voiture,

stealing or steering off into highways or alleys,
blinded to indigo stain, sunset; deaf to tympani, trumpets.

Aliens have taken over the clouds.
Map that with magic wand dipped in sepia. Tone it down.

Even peacocks stand naked. Here's an ideology
disguised as another dimension. What a story!

Don't come crying home/to me (sostenuto)
when you were free to actually speak/say something.

Never is a real work in progress.
Hasn't happened yet, so don't make a practice of it.

1st November Twenty Eleven


There's a water-color fit for anyone's birthday. It happens to be yours.
Small metal box, wrapped in cloth, wishes for happy returns.

Love bleaches yellowing papers.


Issue denials at a private get together. Even rockets are fragile.
Opportunity was lost (again) before sundown, unburdening yourself,

peripheral vision, completely wiped out. Does your lexicon include "transgression"?
How terrified you are. How unsettling conclusions, defectively drawn.


When traces vanish, breathing is easier.
The view is fresh, blistering, tremendous.

I am relieved. It's over, hardly matters any more.
Footprints fade, more or less rapidly, muting score.

Can't say

                      you seemed pleased about your scheduled appointment for coffee. The weather has turned colder, days appear to be lengthening. Consider your friend, how he retraces quotidian twelve steps over the past few years. Small wonder performance is verging on lackluster. Ruts are meant to be avoided.

How do you define a work which cannot be branded? Inch along parapet, discover a stairwell, ring bell and wait for answer, appearing disheveled.

Today is the day, but you have forgotten. Let's assume that we know each other well. Well, walking forward is easier than marching backwards, but, you know the drill. One by one. Shot to kill. Frog went accoutering.

Aerial for house without television is absurd, swinging in breeze, serving no useful function. Much like our past connection. Tell me, who would pay us for that rework, content, revised ambition? Tell us everything we wanted to know.

Phones ring on background of fireworks, forty eight hours past Happy New Year.


There was a story to tell — neither performance,
nor mechanism, nor device.

The listeners lacked clarity, imagination.
"Social overtones" clutter a vacuum.

Silence witnesses "something in the appropriate vocabulary."

Rotting hulk of a wreck, artistic principles,
transitory proclivity of outsiders, written and read right to left.

     ∙    moth
     ∙    bat
     ∙    butterfly
     ∙    dragonfly

" Long tear in the lower left hand corner is a synopsis of flight."

We have arrived at the helix,
numerous versions dissected, shuffled and indexed.

The swift cannot be seen, nor heard.
Wings beat in Xs. Numbers recur.

All of this supposedly connects, concerns, involves,
"things that have been happening."

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