31 January 2011

Cowlick - A Poem


by Brian Gorrell

I worry...
with worthiness my fast foe
to question the breadth of - you and your dark court
..and his - your young majesty of such piousness and brownness
hardly neglected ever
your body on the goodness strewn straw
rest knowing you are great but hardly rare
like icebergs never seen
the dark egg among white ones

while I am crisp plain and turned around
run run run fall...- repeat
never once defeated and cruel with the tightest of heart strings
but nay a single silk strip round my script, caucus
or person
Pride coming last was never an option
foreseen by all
a given

Been warned you
you too
I'm brittle fragile for the bitter shower
Chilling so easy and shout
shrunken and froze

One may reject all proper reasoning and food
for no reason other but the habit or boredom
or fullness of gut
or that silly fear pounding-
for nutrients that heal-

those purple insecurities showing - I know I know I am I know I am THAT gypsy
that the real gypsies did not want
with their flash armour but rags dirty
no protection or answers and ..... defeated
the flesh that covered my hide?
what of it?

this imprint upon this universe
the lotus upon my back.. trying
your passionate saliva coating my lids with the flicker
of an angel lash
fallen down far to that dream
where the currents are only powerful
all consuming

my body is this body bared and broken and brave
It's angry sweat and gross neglect a judgment?
your truth
your love
your everything
In a bag.

I've been once there, maybe twice
crippled like a lamb - no milk on that paddock
over there on the lit moons crest reflections of duty and obey
shivering and wondering, bleating even and very hungry
praying like a lamb does flow
into nothingness and shiver-
what is to become of me...?
that bleating lamb

(wolves bound to catch my vulnerable scent
and stars dim just a bit)

bad of the blooding
yet still alive
warm still

I'm a lamb yes
and a man yes
but I'm also a boy lost and yes
lost- who is embarrassed?
to be this different, angry
this indifferent
this different?

then the man you really dream about...
that man out there

a King or sorts

and when our snow arrives I look up
imagining your graces are the flakes
individual perfection but brief
thy own tongue plunges deep out desperately trying to catch anything
at all
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