Suitcase

Suitcase

The fine tremor of your hand
                 discloses
     Smashed passion
           Faulty goods
in postures of housing reality
Then he screwed up his face
    in attitudes of disgust
Nobody was hurt, the police charged, etc.
Voices announce the sex of the child to the mother.
Voices enunciate a stream of light and air --
          Flooding the bandaged web
                    with requests
               for silence
                  the empty chamber
     or like an X-ray
What's really inside you all the time
And I wonder wonder who/
                                           Who wrote the Book of Love?
This silver threshold 
goes like a nitrogen dream
             dangled before departure
         to the grey station in fact
Grin of despair in the upturned bowl of sky.
                  They embarked
                        they disembarked
     It's going to be all right
he thought, and meant it.
LIKE WAKING IN A STRANGE ROOM
                         like nothing so much
                         as actual behaviour
It isn't calculated, he insists; nobody believes him.
What becomes of the broken hearted
        crowding round the iron pot?
              What becomes of
the broken suitcase
What becomes of good intentions
      lost in the plumbing of heaven?
So just when all was ready
         there would virtually be burns on his mouth
    king-sized arena of the map-talk
bleeding vague scarlet over messed-up sheets
                                don't adjust your radio
                                it tastes so good
                                open & full
                                harder & clearer now
                                chases you down wells
                                red hair inside
                                and no fucking philosophy
"there is life and I want to
                  be dead centre to it
         deep in the heart of"
the food chain pulses
in wet coils;
the love in the wires runs wild
Unhinged
      but interlocked, rapidly flooded with bizarre experience
the blue marks on the arm that was under her answer:
      electric output
              in your atmospheric air condition
         We are having interference
     you are being probed.
Continuous appeals
		in a distorted climate:
where were you when the tape stopped?
	Something is wrong; the face is not familiar.
Something boils dry, but takes a long time to burn.
It sticks and sticks forever
         this throat bone
of love; slips away
round the corner for a quick definite tongued machinery
						And here's the latest news tonight
			in atmospheric black and white:
Once more we have been spared! - courtesy
		of the immune system; once more the suitcase
	 has been filled.
so stand well back to remove the dressing
                  Please, no photographs
      All the players are in time trouble
         and leaking gently as they fall
into each new condition:
          love: trance: debt: silence:
a glowing garble in our microtonal dark