in triplicate
(for russ)
don't point
the absurd makes
a blue-green
imperious intention
from only a thought
glowing in the grate
possibly telling
but as though
to mean nothing
to be
cunningly prepared
to put
the poisoned truth
in its eye
for now
and burn it
as if even this
could result in doubt

after you
in all I spin
of bones and blood
vexed before even
one empty word is forgotten
this is
to be all
there is
this is where
forever is for now
at least
and with
this whole truth
like roaring bullets sent
like loaded bones
my bones
my blood
all I spin
is propped up
by circumstance
braced in time
and again
and last to go

in the woodshed
quietly stealing
a transient belief
that probably never was
for real
be it only a means
to always feel always
a part of the species
would be
to take it willing
from the drab symmetry
of sad po-faced days
all rather long
but days nevertheless
in which to be alone
still shameless in each other's
suburban smile

   John Mingay 2015