Lakey Comess

All the signs

point to dangerously low mood, unsightly beard growth,
yesterday's clothes ripened in shadowy outlook.

It time-limits itself, but not before
                               significant damage to others and self.

Image of brain shows faulty connection
                               in neon-filled green, playing in loops.

Man thinks—the almighty roars in bitter gelechter.

Numbness weighed and divided again translates to spray-painted graffiti,
singing out judgement, suffocating in the gut of a whale.

Do you really consider matters of ownership or
whether Freud's couch was covered in snakeskin or carpet?

White text appears over black backcloth,
equated to stars, guileless reverse.

Condition of desert, creaking of ice,

                                                                            supreme earthly felicity and the Archdeacon reproved, by no less than the Provost for ‘defects in the quire’. The register, the common seal, wavering fire. State, policy and a tendency for disaster. The voices und die Schellen klingen. Imprisoned with burning mirrors, flames melting the sounds of trumpets.

No less human than another. No less daughter. No less son. No less mother.

Speak to a summer loom in the chaplainries. Squander correction of faults in each chapter, urgent messages, seahorses, stories of Aladdin or tinkers. No less human. Varying intensities, ordinances, winnowing grief or some other daily harvest of human. The condition of plough and disaster. Sufficient plunder of oatcake, the Hudson Bay Company, ocean floor, canon of laughter.

Virginia gladly receives that bullet, un/human. Yes, sir, says I, clutching at protocol and meaning endowment of miles.

The condition of staggering farthing and tent.
The condition of desert.
Earthly gold light.

Errand-less window of lemon and jasmine.
Precious flame, unhindered of torment.

Stones. Stones.
December's new moon.

Slow, inexorable, opposite directions.
Creaking of ice.

Frequency of miles in one world.
The sound really not human?

Our lives.
Our lives.

Common disagreeable actualities


What a pity, old boy. What personal comments slung around with the engaging
new breed Martinis. Thank god I don't drink, said she to an art critic.

Anyone can learn to snipe from the gutter,
it doesn't require special talent or practice.


Second version was dispatched in a writ of temper.
Sharp remarks addressed all the black keys of that concerto.

Naturally, tears were shed in copious quantity
when two sisters were brutally torn asunder,

as under rapid fire provocation you really felt (after) effects
of responding too quickly.

Oh come on, mister. Where are your audacious comments, then?
Having a long running affair with a good fountain pen?

Yes, all of your luxury precious stones still survive,
bevel set in cast irony; choker throttling a slender neck____________line.

It moves slowly.

We note the deceased would have found choice of coffin thoroughly tacky. Nice chamber orchestra in background. Red Priest repeating his only concerto, soothingly reflects loss. It's important to know who your colleagues are. It moves slowly, story lost in rumination.

It's an event, shifting between peaceful haven and what are you going to do (new) tomorrow. We wander about our days. Thank goodness one has passed. Shame about the boundaries.

Citizen outrage. One percent, we're told. That concludes the morning half.

What's the conversation? Shifting borders? Misplaced souls?

Spotlit dreams of movement, father's possible involvement with war-time enemies. What makes me think you haven't actually said anything? But you would have it otherwise, giving me that look. Read the book. We do what we want.

January's end is loss, doubled.
Winds freshen, turn colder.

First snowdrops break hearts.

Overwhelming sadness attaches to otherwise tranquil solitude, choking breath, making mark on tired features. One side of the pond is frozen, the other full of greedy fat ducks. Signs admonishing belligerent mothers and toddlers not to feed them make sense. Even park wildlife are suffering, obese.

Did you wish the writer to be what was good about life or did you fancy a mystery? Either way, were you into honesty?

What happens when you lose compass, north? Do you wait for direction to evolve or strike out on new path, trampling leaf and vine, shoving boulders out of the way?

It's all rhetorical, so leave answers in silence.

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, Hamilton Stone Review, Otoliths, RealPoetik, On Barcelona and other publications, sometimes as Lakey Teasdale.
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