Sonnet 118
“Your weak Achilles your Achilles is”:
The physiotherapist’s dry wit. I wince.
I emphasise I stretched, and all that ****
She brooks not my entreaties. “How long since
you pranged it?” Several weeks. I hobble first
thing, until it warms up. Ok to run
on normally within a month. But worse
this time. The Sybil cackles. “Time? Time’s done
this. Time.” Mad scrawl on oak leaves. “Pharmacist.
For non-steroidals. Go now. Sacrifice.
And write such elegiac as thou list
unto Apollo, for his benefice.”
I hurry home, and from my parched well’s drought
this strangulated pizzle dribbles out.
..........
Sonnet 120
The bridge crosses the brook, from which bald tyres
and trolleys long ago displaced the nymphs.
Grim lane of bail hostels and rusty wire;
the twilight may as yet afford a glimpse
of gnomish junkies ferreting damp leaves.
Time, like the Frome’s slime, slithers sourly by,
its minutes measured out in drunk’s dry heave
until the next burst vein or artery
shall dye the beige a fetching ketchup. Now
edge past the knot of slightly threatening men;
it’s all with nature of a piece. The Tao.
Sacred and ******* then. Now, again,
night falls. The pavement drinkers swear and spit,
and Cabot Parking’s exit ramp is lit.
..........
Sonnet 131
For mead of night just superseded I
keep this day to my chamber, and here dwell
with all my secretary close. ‘Tis dry,
and sap exudeth eke from outer shell;
evaporations of élan vital.
For which, repentant, ’tis my stern resolve
to ingest an astringency: a phall
or sour grapes, whatever it involves.
The heartburn of defeat and, on the tongue
the ashen taste of petty victory,
the biting gall that’s from each douceur wrung:
’tis bitter harvest. Yet it harvest be,
for in foulness exquisite flowers bloom,
and profane wit illuminates the gloom.
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 6:35 AM UTC