Lakey Comess

Equilibrium, Virginia. An old master

                stored there where you left it. There’s a build up of sand—something about tides, currents and barriers, concrete of blocks. Didn't really understand this by-the-way explanation but, being naturally flummoxed, apparently worked out a fabrication that satisfies the way it revolves. Almost like the world as though there are squares within circles, the way his arms stretch out. The diagonals. The background chart. By way of interaction? Or prediction.

His eyes were deep, light-blue corresponding and contrasting to a dark green shirt he then wore, his lion's beard last to go in chemical reaction. Full of life until the transition. Almost the way Bach had so many children, a fugue of them setting the pace for the long distance runner, running into the long distance. Staying the course. The marathon space.

You can see the faint outline of a wheel?

Ezequiel held no answer to the question at all. None at all, but she heard it nonetheless and it tolls, sometimes taking its toll, sometimes a comfort, the way one finds remittance in symbols, a pittance not quite understood, but there just for the mystery of it. The way children break out in festivals of firecrackers and subversive chant.

The outstretched arms reach towards what future? Mirrored by his legs outstretched, pinned to the map or nailed to a wheel?

Pity that she couldn't see it, too. He said so, made that plain, but knows only that the wheel was great and wonders if it was designed in Chinese explosives, ablaze.

Days swift as the weaver's shuttle and spent, dragging along any old which way thoughts wander, running across encounters, through gauntlets, listening to taunts.

Let it be, at least for a while.

Presuppose benediction,
                preface inscription,
shiver your timbers,
                hang from the rafters and
rush at the fences.

All this from you, charcoal, mystery, her man.

Her beautiful, bearded old man,
pinned to your paper and encompassed, as though navigation
might help him spin wheels and begs you:

Don't throw that knife.

Let the wheel turn, turn, let it revolve but don't throw that knife.

Vestals and Virginia

               The fiction of the truth was medium plain to see,
the country of the disappointed self, appointed.

Her velvet is black with a red lining, the skirt is trousers.

The post-ssertS counterpoint,
stresses of the first syllable, childless, over
come with beautiful children.

The scene was seen,
                the aqua, green.

The inattentive inamorata, attentively reflective,
an undertoned overtone to a coat, the pockets deep.

The aurora rara borealis paled in
spit and dirty looks, then licked her lips,

the pensive slips away, no doubt enticed,
spliced knots undone.

Letters eight, significant,
septenate one-upped, like a swan.

Deciphered, mischief reforms. Birds on wires resemble
nothing more than the notes of a fugue.

Fugue on again toward consolation, interpretation
having passed and been noted.

Flexible yearning yearns.


No prearranged suicide?


backup their views,
               undo or ruin.

the dark was nothing
like an explosion of white.



Conundrum foreshadows
precisian limitless maximums.


Write a sequel. Think about it,
               clarify a chapter.


The hypotenuse side opposite,
right angle of right-angled triangle.

The goddess of   hydrography


    horses   or angels.


A spore contains vast
lectionary portions.


The icosahedron tells them:

hazelnuts are idiomatic,


Tell all. Do tell.


Eclipse reflects sound.

The time it takes
for an echo to be










These are called leaves


Cognomen: leaves

                                             (for Michael Rothenberg 14-11-02)


This is a labour of love, advance booking for Seabiscuit,
plaintive checks on the flat at St Cloud, lush pastimes,
nomonynomonynomony won, claiming a maiden.

Told her to put on some heels,
climatic conditions, experience no rivals,
Sadler's Wells, parades, coronations, spectacles.

Arc day commences with mild palpitations,
undulating waves, poisonous blue grass.

Paper chases the spy off course,
puts unwanted guests in their places.
Entwined figures, happily balanced,

Here is today, your beautiful wife,
x-filed, like shadowy operative.

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