Lakey Comess


Ink, hardly dry on the page, demonstrators are gathering,
throwing stones. Break up crowds, seal the area.

Red Priest, pare down the ritual timbre.

Measure in ploughs,
pictures of science,
                               lashes of water,
stinging harmonic analyses,
                               indelibly merged.

And so on to Grieg.

This is called building a library
based on hot tips,
rapport, mutual feeling,
fly on the wall
at the raving board.

Self-introspection and justification
elaborate moment, always calenture.

Synaesthesia listens to chairs, pop raises its head,
devotional lyrics have a say.

Act your age, scratch the itch.
Plain and neat walks out on the docket.

Space is truly a risky business, failing instruments,
remnants laid out in a hangar.

Chicago derides knit zoot suit. Swan Lake appears briefly,
epic and exigent, performed by real men.

Time canvasses example,
stumbles onto tranquility.

Certain conditions

                               precipitate continuing negotiation,
formalizing bonds. Serious times call for serious talks,

possible division of cells, fears for the future,
exchanging vows to keep loss at a distance.

We wing it, play it by ear, focus on first foot forward,
second one follows, brace ourselves to positive effect.

Recruitment calls for volunteers to chart constitutional walks,
while ingesting cocktails of toxic substances.

Will you assist, engraving projection of quotidian symptoms?

Dinner at two a.m.

Pass tree in the park (near which dog thoroughly snubs curious squirrel),
weep at pressure points on soles of feet,

indentation on floorboard where previous owner's brass bed
played tons of fun military tattoo (bouncing on springs).

Preconceived notions roll out like dust bunnies from under the chairs.

He said, The city's too edgy (in terms of location),
moved into a refurbished Carmelite monastery.

Ask my opinion,
that's edgier still, looking into its history.

Dinner begins at two in the morning, breakfast, midday.
Trying to get back onto schedule is easy, setting alarm, rise quickly,
hoping next door's shit-guitar is silenced permanently.

Flowers spill out of baskets, bikes float in deluge,
block entrance to grotto, gaps in communication.

It's a different way to clear up the neighbourhood, wet and destructive.

Exchange in mind's eye "composure" with "computer",
watch intimacy wash up onto a cloud, threaten your very existence,
confuse issues, throw a brick into engine.

Happy enough to see portrayal recede,
question arises as to whether it was breach of security or etiquette.

First-hand bafflement tags onto diary,
Chekhov reduced to spare circumscribed sound bites,

quantum stretches of fancy. Dismayed or perplexed?
That's the big money question.

Status quo reconfigures in time, if you're looking for certainty.
Park by the bridges, play on familiar ground.

You’ll soon ring mysterious changes, pick up mischance,
skip the second half of the finale.

Point toward the sea for diversion.

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, Hamilton Stone Review, Otoliths and other publications, sometimes under the name Lakey Teasdale.
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