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The End of the Line

Redraft!

The End of the Line

 

Would you leave before the end of lunch?

Dash up beyond the bay of needing arms,

onto the platform above the bed,

and take the chiffon too – as the horizon

sometimes takes the spray

of sea away. A hankie used to wipe the eye

gone steam of the departing train. Listen to

her gasp, as she smiles thrillingly

saying ‘Bring back the chiffon’, with a

hiss almost a purring – covering up her body

with her arms in a way that reveals more body

more arm. So know her incessantly then.

So give back the chiffon –

refresh your memory

like this at each station: how

wound the charming spires,

banked the winding lanes, lazy and louche

the afternoons of skin.

Knowledge

a ledge or a gap in the hedge in a village on the way

from and towards, even better and further.

Go this evening! End of time –

where all arrive nude, staggered, jumpers backward,

heaving the breath as if

more breath than for a

weekend of breathing. No journey so sweet

as the one from Edge Hill to the end of the line.

No sweep so direct. A thudding,

swift hush through an Aigburth of pleasure

in a region of pain. A soft bleet hushed – as the

train goes ‘do, do’ into a tunnel.

Edge Hill a blotch behind:

a man on the moon of the flesh.

The morning runs the night’s lines run true.

 

 

Based on the title of the latest exhibition at the Bluecoat this started off as an experiment with line breaks.  Maybe I will be a bit more severe with this experiment in future drafts…

The End of the Line

(or Getting off at Edge Hill)

 

Those of you who get off at Edge Hill, tonight stay on!

Go all the way with us who came

and will go again. Destinations are loyal husbands

dogs, really, journeys a carriage of strangers

sniffing all the way. O, to know a journey

good enough to marry it!

No, of course you won’t know a journey.

Nor will it know you. Like getting to know

her while smelling her and

holding her plaits to the floor. Yes, fondness

is a rumble, but then jump up, dashing

out the bay of her grasp, and take the chiffon with you

(as the horizon sometimes takes the spray of

sea away). Listen to her gasp, as

she smiles thrillingly, saying ‘Bring back

the chiffon’, with a hiss almost

a purring. And know incessantly then,

then give back the chiffon, and perhaps your body

too, but I don’t be afraid to carry both off again

should you need distance to refresh

your recollection how wound the charming spires,

banked the winding lanes, lazy and louche the

afternoons of skin.

Gladly – that is, within gladness –

one can never know a place. Knowledge

a ledge or a gap in the hedge in a village

on the way to somewhere better and

farther. Go tonight, then! The end of the line –

where all arrive flustered, walking

wide-legged, struggling to carry the breath as if breath

for more than a weekend of breathing. But

no journey so sweet as the one from Edge Hill to

the end of the line. No sweep so direct. A thudding,

swift shush through an Aigburth of pleasure. A soft

bleet hushed, as if the night were saying tunnel

into a tunnel. Seeing a light in front. Edge Hill

a blotch on the behind: a man on the moon of the flesh.

The morning a country that lets the line run true.

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