MANIFEST TOE

CLUT

Day 58 - The cat boarded the tram -

Four poems -

1. The Ghost of Terequin Jack:

Terequin Jack hasn't breathed in weeks.

But although he's dead he stands next to me

reminding me to sort my hair and check my pockets.

He slips me notes of witty jokes and reminds me of

the contextual reasons for contemporary politics.

He gives me ideas and draws neat fine-line pictures.

Tells me which books to read and which songs to know

Tells me which colours match and which colours don't go.

He tells me when to be angry and how loudly to laugh

When to have a quick shower and when a long bath.

When to drink beer and when to drink wine

When to lean in for a kiss and when it isn't time.

He does my exercise and works for my money

He writes all my poems and provides me with rhymes.

He has such powers I hope he'll never take back.

The wondrous ghost of Terequin Jack.

2. Holy Poems I, II, III, IV:

Sick unholy children

you are loved.

Bring your son to an altar

that you might be judged.

Kill him, spare him. Cut

Don't cut his throat.

Have legs and kneel.

Be sick. Be well.

Uphold your mother

and murder your brother.

Go in unto your daughters

and preserve your seed.

Have choice and choose wrong.

Choose my spirit and my son.

Rub oil into a pillar.

I protect you from

the Knowledge of yourself.

Godhead. GIVE ME life pain pleasure death hope

tasks responsibility and gifts.

ALIGHT THE BUSH FOR MY WANDERING EYES

AND speak.

PROTECT ME FROM pain knowledge exploration and

freedom.

GIVE ME land and beasts as extensions of my hands.

TAKE MY rib AND GIVE ME A servant.

THAT I MAY serve IN comfortable satisfaction.

3. In Between My Fingertips:

Ckargh . CKK . Keurgh . AK .

at the back of my throat

at the base of my tongue

in the depths of my ear

buried under my eyes

through the gaps in my nose.

Lays a small spider, one of my eight.

I swallowed it about the age of eleven,

watching Buffy disgraced in Cruel Intentions.

I captured the little fellow in my palm

and forced him into the centre of my head.

That itch I'll never properly scratch,

it's bothered me ever since.

4. Painted Glass:

I've left this shore in search of the new.

But my boat is fragile,

cracked ragged and infantile;

I'm terrified of what I might find,

the demons of novelty play on my mind.

But I feel some of that old strength; secure.

I have a hidden defence that I feel will insure

protection. A shield made of thick

glass, I keep in the bow. But it has a trick!

I've painted it black to protect my soft thoughts

from the unnerving prospects of fresh juggernauts.

that is all for now. CHX