silence in progress

one of those
about to have
to tell everyone
in another

and then we'll see

the turn of the
lips and the cold
single word
might actually be good

but only after

a brief moment
vanished
with each next word

silent

wearing yellow
each comes to rest
against the letter

and the words
she keeps
she doesn't dare to hear

though a year along

and what does it
all matter

sentences poorly strung

meaning
to be assumed

to be found

*

losing my voice

my mind already

both becoming but
a contrapuntal mumble

a sound
bangs against the
machine and comes to rest

him

he says it has
many years of
hardly ever
the lines
to always write

stunned

a hero's death

not so much
that he can't understand
all the lies
as that he cried
to hear
you with your
scraps and shreds

but
it would be
too long now

anyway

what of it
if we're only here
the once

*

what of it
if we've all even become
ghosts already

after all
just what are we
supposed to look like
when we're
just about dead

and because
people like to be an issue
hurried as a soft pillow

so convinced

then
if you fail
this whole business
of an old mind
wouldn't be slapping thighs
on the run
yet to be always standing

there

in a worn suit

shoving time
blast
or whatever

my fellow idler mutters

as always is

*

he laughed
quite enough

more to
feel his face missing
than to need death alone

then
he says
life is there to be played

like words only firstly heard

once

he says we are
of no strange flesh and bones

brothers

two boys
never written of

never one to know the other

one of us
always certain
nothing will take
too long now

almost glad to be done

the other
immortal
in his own mind

perennially popular
in dreams

*

I can settle on
the lion's share of truth
from time to time

I can speak
if I hear something
to make me talk

like the moment to see

swimming eyes

nothing

anything thought seen
only blunt delusion

I could tell you the whole
but for the fact
that I can remember

nothing

not even
a part
a sample
a taster

a lie

but you will
laugh again
as if
good seeds
can spread

as though
he whispers back

lost

*

as if
good seeds
could spread

but then
no seeds
to spread

a trick in the tale

stiff and proud

a right honourable member

but absent in conclusion

the truth we want to think
just like this
is looking into the silence
in wonder

every minute
overflowing
hanging
against
the day

or dying

nothing

just dying
like this

so silently

the least doubt
and a single word
couldn't even
have been typed
unknown of

even though
obviously forgotten

always been

*

to doubt
that least birdlike doubt
for even just a second
is already atonement
for every moment lost

and to doubt
that single word

unknown of

obviously forgotten

is to finish with
that dry and flinty
pernickety conviction
that the taking part
isn't really
somewhere to be

yet
with the secrecy and lies
nearly done
I realise the colour of blood

relatively speaking

and it is dark

awash
with frustrations
and a fatigue
to grapple with

to colour it dead

*

© John Mingay 2014