Part Six

They say these blistered meadows are but fragrant fields of memory's blood,
but what sort of memory is that?
We have laid us down
to suffer these impossible moments,
yet there is no return.
We disfigure the past to straighten the present,
and all the time the void hunts us.
Versailles was a stinking dung heap,
knee deep excretion, call it shit,
a terra nullius long before the barrage hit home
set before me, yet not yet even arrived.

And now a turning, a sleight of hand,
a trickster on the side street,
slashing gainst a lamp post, splashing'n'illuminated,
kinda neat, but also kinda bland and over rated.
Sodden headlines blowing in the rain-soaked wind
Over one million dead and counting the tables are turned.'
This, yes, this pay your dues or else suffer the abuse.
Bye now, au revoir, buy now, die later
you know it makes sense,
consume or be consumed
the retail predator.

Pierrot snores melancholia, dreams of Cataluñia,
of revolutions not yet fought, still less won,
his face a faded camellia, virgin white,
sun-bleached like a beach,
each breath a breach taking flight,
a suggestion of travesty,
as much courted in the eye
as risen in the thigh, pushed to me,
this promise of flesh unturned,
a suffocation yet to be learned
or tongued in different landscapes,
fuzzed in the fuse of it
to touch and brush in the woodland
down then, down into the rough of it
like we could never get enough of it.
Oooh, but the gag
I see the rouge and the powdering,
see the limp which suggests a solitude
the skull I knew so well,
the place where better blood once fell
to leaping fires of just another hell
which once burned so fierce.
Oh, but these conflagrations do make a heaven of embrace.
Therein me, therein, cast in haste,
all a'flurry before the warning
what a friggin waste.
Or this, the never before,
which weaves weary platitude,
wrecking youth's unerring fortitude.
I see thee, but see thee not.
Ayee, eyes popped, lips engorged,
a past denied, a future forged.