Words words words

I know you
I know how you feel inside
I know the smile in your eyes
and your sighs

a north-east wind blows waves onto the fragile coast
the developers’ blue tin fence rattles
screech and scrap of the highcranes and earthmovers

Yesterday afternoon I felt awful, at least under the weather. My legs
are tired. In the autumn I was doing about 30K a week and since the
beginning of December its been 38K. I was thinking perhaps I need
another rest day … but then I read through the running posts that came
up with the tag-surfer. And out I went, running carefully and
attentively, but running.
Thank you fellow running bloggers!
It was peaceful out - there’s a little bit of rain in the air, as there
always seems to be in this moon, the last before the new year, and so
the locals were safe in the dry. I noticed that it’s so easy for me to
get into running along looking into an empty space about 2 metres in
front of my chest. Must try to stop that ….

I wanted a poem about a wren -
there she is, la petite guinivere,
in the soft light of the old chapel,
hiding in the ivy - her little song,
small featherlets - or through the broken panes
where the old gardener had grown tender
greens, winter sallets and softfruit for the house -
under the darkling yew we shelter’d once,
your gentle hair rested upon my breast,
and at eve, moonlit, grassy hills we’d climb -
ghosts a’dance on the lawn, silently stepping
quadrilles obselete, unmeasured & unseen.

It is a kind of heaven, your secret
mossy place, you let me gaze in wonder.

Bloody hell! free-market capitalism
is just an oxymoron …
(The Deserted Village by Oliver Goldsmith -
my text at uni, C18th couplets.)
They had to torch the thatched roofs, force
Dick and Fanny into the towns, into
the mills - AKA the labour market.

The girls are pretty and maybe money,
having money, makes them shine a little
bit more. Maybe. But the middle-aged
peasant women, in the market, on bicycles,
with sun-browned skin and hard-worked clothes,
strong cheek-bones, sparklin’ eyes and a laugh,
well, they surely outshine the wealthy paint-
hid ladies, shaped in their corsetry.

And are those souls
That erroneously believed
The church could them shelter
Now floating in the clouds
Lounging in VIP reception
Or cruising in the hot tail
Of a comet?

The angry mob which discovered
Democracy is not democratic
But whatever the bossman says.

I will not read what is writ
In the Book of War
Ignorance and suffering
Is what I see
Violence taught in ways
On longer subtle

man! ego one patriarchic phallus
an there he sit …
do you remember Pan? Let’s remember Pan!
on the breeze the chemical perfumes
fresh fro’ th’ fashion counter, nylon lingerie …
the polite rhythmic click-clack of the whore’s highheels
fucking up her spine, wond’rous lymphoma
those tight! clothes and the face she paints …
ev’rything in nothing, we make her
shave her cunt and dance, we make her
shave her cunt and dance … nothing, nothing …
“And then he fucked me,” she said. Fluttering.
.. in our binary embrace, ones and zeros
fractalling off over the horizon,
the glorious imperfections of the flesh
wobblin’ jogglin’ along, the musk of rut,
we tumble together - she, I - words, words,
words for which we search, fumble, ‘umble
finding ourselves fronting up to such majesty …
little willy …
nobodaddy muss escape an ‘ome he go …
man

On Monday I ran 12km in 56 minutes and felt great. Twenty years ago I
ran a 10K charity race in 45 minutes. As I crossed the line, the
announcer said something like - and these are still the runners …
I floated home and walked backwards down the stairs for three days. I
still don’t do enough stretching - on Tuesday’s run my right calf
ouched, and again on Wednesday. Rest days! I just like running as fast
as I can, as far as I can … what’s that patience thing again? So I’ll
go out this afternoon, unless the interview turns up for today …
tomorrow is teaching day - walk there and back and sleep most of the
afternoon. I’m hoping to be up the another 12K on Sunday.