#51

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ten strikes by God's hand hit just
around the corner
stranded, two from midnight
forgiving a load of mistellings and ties
did you see the fox?
it looked both ways before crossing,
isn't that neat? you know, they don't tell lies,
that's a lie.
two ginger ales clank in a bag while
across the way, the cat begs outside Sylvia's house.
it's still light in there, I've never seen the portrait weep,
believe it or not.
two pints meet, beads of glass sweat meshing, below the pub's sign.
above, a pair of lovers sway at the hob, swearing 'forever' to one another.
now, that is a lie.
there goes the train, clattering on and on passing by High.
take a right and look left, a set of children hang baubles from the ceiling
whispering to each other about the things they've spied.
their ornaments are the kind that catch bad-dealings,
just ask the artist from The Candy Factory, she'd never
pass a silver-tongue by.
my tarnished cross and grandmother's locket kiss in my bag
Radiohead are at it, ringing weird technicolor circles in my head.
until the weight comes craddling down
and the sun rises from a slumber, finally putting all the dormice to sleep.
again, overwritten
overwritten, again
I'll tell you a secret
even the devil kneels to say,
amen.
now I lie.