Thou hast committed—
       Fornication: but that was in another country,
       And besides, the ***** is dead.
                                         The Jew of Malta.

I

Among the smoke and fog of a December afternoon
You have the scene arrange itself—as it will seem to do—
With ‘I have saved this afternoon for you’;
And four wax candles in the darkened room,
Four rings of light upon the ceiling overhead,
An atmosphere of Juliet’s tomb
Prepared for all the things to be said, or left unsaid.
We have been, let us say, to hear the latest Pole
Transmit the Preludes, through his hair and fingertips.
‘So intimate, this Chopin, that I think his soul
Should be resurrected only among friends
Some two or three, who will not touch the bloom
That is rubbed and questioned in the concert room.’
—And so the conversation slips
Among velleities and carefully caught regrets
Through attenuated tones of violins
Mingled with remote cornets
And begins.
‘You do not know how much they mean to me, my friends,
And how, how rare and strange it is, to find
In a life composed so much, so much of odds and ends,
(For indeed I do not love it… you knew? you are not blind!
How keen you are!)
To find a friend who has these qualities,
Who has, and gives
Those qualities upon which friendship lives.
How much it means that I say this to you—
Without these friendships—life, what cauchemar!’

Among the windings of the violins
And the ariettes
Of cracked cornets
Inside my brain a dull tom-tom begins
Absurdly hammering a prelude of its own,
Capricious monotone
That is at least one definite ‘false note.’
—Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance,
Admire the monuments,
Discuss the late events,
Correct our watches by the public clocks.
Then sit for half an hour and drink our bocks.

II

Now that lilacs are in bloom
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room
And twists one in his fingers while she talks.
‘Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know
What life is, you who hold it in your hands’;
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)
‘You let it flow from you, you let it flow,
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse
And smiles at situations which it cannot see.’
I smile, of course,
And go on drinking tea.
‘Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall
My buried life, and Paris in the Spring,
I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world
To be wonderful and youthful, after all.’

The voice returns like the insistent out-of-tune
Of a broken violin on an August afternoon:
‘I am always sure that you understand
My feelings, always sure that you feel,
Sure that across the gulf you reach your hand.

You are invulnerable, you have no Achilles’ heel.
You will go on, and when you have prevailed
You can say: at this point many a one has failed.

But what have I, but what have I, my friend,
To give you, what can you receive from me?
Only the friendship and the sympathy
Of one about to reach her journey’s end.

I shall sit here, serving tea to friends….’

I take my hat: how can I make a cowardly amends
For what she has said to me?
You will see me any morning in the park
Reading the comics and the sporting page.
Particularly I remark
An English countess goes upon the stage.
A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance,
Another bank defaulter has confessed.
I keep my countenance,
I remain self-possessed
Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired
Reiterates some worn-out common song
With the smell of hyacinths across the garden
Recalling things that other people have desired.
Are these ideas right or wrong?

III

The October night comes down; returning as before
Except for a slight sensation of being ill at ease
I mount the stairs and turn the handle of the door
And feel as if I had mounted on my hands and knees.
‘And so you are going abroad; and when do you return?
But that’s a useless question.
You hardly know when you are coming back,
You will find so much to learn.’
My smile falls heavily among the bric-à-brac.

‘Perhaps you can write to me.’
My self-possession flares up for a second;
This is as I had reckoned.
‘I have been wondering frequently of late
(But our beginnings never know our ends!)
Why we have not developed into friends.’
I feel like one who smiles, and turning shall remark
Suddenly, his expression in a glass.
My self-possession gutters; we are really in the dark.

‘For everybody said so, all our friends,
They all were sure our feelings would relate
So closely! I myself can hardly understand.
We must leave it now to fate.
You will write, at any rate.
Perhaps it is not too late.
I shall sit here, serving tea to friends.’

And I must borrow every changing shape
To find expression… dance, dance
Like a dancing bear,
Cry like a parrot, chatter like an ape.
Let us take the air, in a tobacco trance—

Well! and what if she should die some afternoon,
Afternoon grey and smoky, evening yellow and rose;
Should die and leave me sitting pen in hand
With the smoke coming down above the housetops;
Doubtful, for a while
Not knowing what to feel or if I understand
Or whether wise or foolish, tardy or too soon…
Would she not have the advantage, after all?
This music is successful with a ‘dying fall’
Now that we talk of dying—
And should I have the right to smile?

505

I would not paint—a picture—
I’d rather be the One
Its bright impossibility
To dwell—delicious—on—
And wonder how the fingers feel
Whose rare—celestial—stir—
Evokes so sweet a Torment—
Such sumptuous—Despair—

I would not talk, like Cornets—
I’d rather be the One
Raised softly to the Ceilings—
And out, and easy on—
Through Villages of Ether—
Myself endued Balloon
By but a lip of Metal—
The pier to my Pontoon—

Nor would I be a Poet—
It’s finer—own the Ear—
Enamored—impotent—content—
The License to revere,
A privilege so awful
What would the Dower be,
Had I the Art to stun myself
With Bolts of Melody!

Simone was among the smallest of the small, a flutist of the smallest size,
Who carried herself well, and seemed to be taller than she was, at least in her mind,
Making her among the tallest, among those who could strut their stuff across the marching field.
She was proud, even on these practice days, when the dew of morning would
Make the practice areas so wet, and make her roll her pants up to just below her knees,
And her shoes would be soaked before it was over, and her heart would melt
Inside the flute, so big it seemed, compared to her hundred pounds.

Simone left little to chance, her eyes were forward, yet they moved quickly
From side to side, always checking her position on the field, and her
Position among those with her, and her position in what she perceived to be
The best among them.

One, two, three, four, five, six.  Repeat. One, two, three, four, five, six.  Six to five
They marched, long strident steps for the five foot of her, almost as if she was
Carrying the length of the world upon her shoulders. Her back was straight, her head
High up, toward the southern sky that held not a cloud, and the footsteps of those
Around her, the Flutist, till the turn, then the French horns crossing her path,
And she listened for the cue among them, and realized they carried their instrument
But there was nothing to be heard, as their mouths looked as though they played
Yet only the mouth pieces knew, it was but a scam of time.

She was wrapped in the image, that being here, on this field of one hundred twenty,
There was a leader, if you thought of it, too lead them in their playing,
But the real leader was her, briskly marching; head up, down the field, and hearing
The slides of the trombones, bam bammer, bam bam, up and down, as they never looked,
But kept time, her flute so bright and cheery, and so lost in the mornings lift.
One, two, three, four, five, six.  Six steps to five, six steps to five, six steps to five.  
Other bands, no all bands, marched eight to five, which would seems so much more
Comfortable to march, smaller steps, smaller people, across the field so major in its size
But her band, marched six steps to five, making for cleaner, tighter lines.

Ta da, daaa da, tee dee daa dumple deed ah daa, the trumpets and cornets rang out, loud
And seemingly obnoxious, in their tee dahs and tee daaaas, making for a crashing sound
Of thuno didity thump thump as the drummers passed, all music ringing loose from her head,
And the crashing sound of the drum, and the Thump, Thump, Thump, Thump of the bass,
Keeping time, keeping rhythm, of the John Phillips Sousa march across the field.
Her feet kept time, her flute braced up to her lips, her breath pouring forth,
Blending in perfect time, to make the most pleasant noise, her breath taken in, and her breath out
She flowed with the drums, the trombones, the trumpets, and heard the bass attempts
To play of the baritones, God’s most beautiful instrument, and the caterwauling
Of the clarinets, tooting and playing and attempting to play, some brand of music,
Some portion of a song that must have been heard long ago, that seemed to have
Nothing at all in common with the song at hand, but each looking down to trace
Their finger patterns, to hear the music as it played.

Simone’s flute, for all it was worth in her small tiny hands, in her small tiny arms,
Across this major large field, with these bodies next to hers, with the blats and sickles,
The very intent of each one to make its noise across at one another, seemed
To be a cacophony of sound, a completeness of nothing, and mess of a wreck of instruments.

Then there was the noise.   A complete and un-fractured belt of wonderful musical sound
As it marched toward her, as it seemed to assault, but to pay compliments to her,
As it seemed to worship the very wet, damp ground, upon which she walked, she felt something
In her body, a stirring, a feeling, her stomach turning in a good way, as her eyes lifted
She saw him, marching, One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six times across the field,
One step was starting on the yard line, the last touching the yard line, five yards later.

The sousaphone.  This mass of brass, wrapped three times at the valves, turned
Around his neck, ending in a massive, shiny, bell of a horn, bigger around than her body
Bigger than a freight train coming down the track at her, she saw him.  Felt him.
Could feel the cool timber of his breath and voice and song, played so well upon
That instrument.  He was over six feet tall, no six feet six, and that horn, dear god,
Was two feet and several inches across the bell, putting him eight feet tall,
Compared to her five feet, and her fragile weight, and the mass before her.  That sounded,
So beautiful.  So real, such a part of it all, its tone, its timber, its reality was there and Anthony,
Playing it with intensity, playing it so strong, its notes almost removing her light little
Shoes from the field.  She thought she could float, she thought for a moment, that she
Had died and was no longer walking, but floating across the field.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Down. The. Scale. Up. The. Scale. Boom. Boom. Boom. Anthony played the music,
And marched, keeping time, and handling the music well……and he heard her soft little notes
This miniature toy before him, this small flutist playing her trills, her melody, her principle
Piece so well, so that it sneaked in and captured his heart in a moment, his breath short,
His feeling of being the only person in the band, suddenly expanded to two, took him hard.

And they played their music, their parts, and the rest of the band tried to keep up.

Get me down to the local band stand
traditional and modern grand
Cornets, Euphoniums and tuba's in tune
I love the sight I'm so immune
from the pits of Yorkshire and round the globe
Scores resounding from Adobe
The Conductor's baton keeps the beat
and if its wrong they stamp there feet
from amateur to championship
all you have is brass to lip
contests regional every year
and music reading not play by ear!

We're all ingredients in the humanity stew
The sad clowns
The prescription abusers
The chickens running around without their heads
This dish can never be out done
It's killing me
Ashes from Pompeii
The braces of teenage heart throbs
****** black and blues from abusive relationships
Fill the pots and pans
A homemade meal per say
Chain linked sausage fences
Add some Epsom salt
Some beef chuck
Giblets
And Simonides of Ceos
Daphoenus bones
A dentist and a retainer
Cornets, pirouettes and percocets
Awkward magazine subscriptions
You can buy the cookbook in all its opacity
See it in the Intrepid Museum
There is work to be done on Mount Olympus
Therefore we should go see a movie at the drive in

       -Tommy Johnson

At the Waters Edge
As the tide laps onto the shore
So shall it flow.
Eternally.

Wanting you more.
We stand on the beach watching gulls swoop.
Sadly,only  images in our minds.
Scraps of the past,
captured by gulls.
Tossed on white horses,
They go with the flow.

As do you and I.
Bouncing on currents of warm salty air.
Smell the seashore.
Taste it.
Taste it ,
as we taste love.
Feel it, as we  hold each other close in mind.

We could be oar less rowing boats.
Drifting aimlessly on rushing ripples.
Like the weather, they change course.
Lifted and falling ever of course.

Vanilla ice cream.
Strawberry  syrup.
Dripping from cornets.
To learn of your likes.
You may not like ice cream.
Nor strawberry sauce.
As we grow together for sure.
We'll discover more.


I yearn to hold you.

To survey the stars in the sky,

two of us as one.
Want no more,
To stroll alone on the shore.
I have a hand that needs holding.

Held empty too long.

Paddle in beach shoes.

To feel the swell water.
Warmed by the sun.
It's  waiting for you.

Time nor tide will stop and wait
But always I shall wait,
always for you.

To  watch sunsets  and rises.

Morning surprises.
Coffee and croissants.

Straw hats and boaters.

I'd climb to the cliff tops to hold you again.
You my darling.

I know you feel the same.
You feel the same.
I know that you do.
Distance before us.
If only you knew.

Drifting out to sea.

Then home again.
Safe in my arms.
One day my darling.
You and I will be us.
(c)Livvi MMCV

In the pools of her eyes that meet the sun where she lies
on the beach.
A seagull cries.
And out of reach of the tide on the wide side of forty five
she makes me come alive.

In the dunes that dance where we started this romance and the
smell of the seaweed that gave us the lead to get away.
I remember this as if yesterday
And the memory drips like the melting ice of the cornets we bought.
Never thought that before.

I wonder if she thinks of me
Did she
Marry?

Did she call our son Harry?
(yes I knew)

In the scents of the evening air
It feels as if, she's still somewhere out there
Waiting.

In the sands through which I run my hands
I can feel her
but it makes me blue.
And I stop.

Topping the crest of a wave was the best
but only with her
I wonder where
She is now.

And the tide comes on in
I begin to pack away
The thoughts and the wishes
that were yesterday.
The seagull still cries
Maybe it's crying for me.

Time is nothing new, knowing knots will never be undone
Evil crawls in the minds of man, manifesting itself to be beautiful
Accepting and acknowledging all aristocrats who abuse their power
The world is bland, where a woman loses her womanly flower
Covering each other up, taking out the surface not the root, it’s wrongful
Uncommon is the book, imagination in the individual’s ideal of no fun I sit pondering upon these problems, probing a way into fixing all
When a crumpling crucial crumping sound, roared through the skies TV’s turned on, radios turned up, the Television speaks of trumpets
Couples, church-goers, children cry to the camera “Ready your Caskets” Fire and hail trail to the ground, blood blaze behind, Earth in her demise
People jab and judge each other, nobody understanding the Trumpets first call.
As the people panic in passionate rage and fear Everything is going, diminishing, dying, covered in dirt, grass and trees burning
A second trumpets serenades through savage yells
Mountains begin to burn and fall, along with the church bells
The seas slowly from within spoils into blood curling
Every child glances up joyfully as staircases appear. A ten horned beast raises out of the sea, mouth maliciously open with intent
Scrambling and screaming sub-beasts crawl into an unhinged jaw
It rages and shakes the ten kings hoarding on each horn. Three kings crumble, crash to cultivated grounds, their bodies torn. Blood bathed, entitled; enraged the beast takes earth as its thrall. The people scared, scratched, scraped and tortured bent. Blackened beasts bash past the saints
Looking for sin, sinister civil devils
Trumpet three blows, while sitting upon universal long ledges
The demons demonstrating patience beyond the ages
Hells helpful and hazy corruption seen at different levels
Through mans lounging, Wormwood falls to decide fates. The world is weeping through wasted weaves of wind
Disgusting smell of dead rides the tormented tasteless air
Swallowed by the fourth trumpet, bravely bashing through gusts
To find safe haven upon the throne of tusks
No animal though that tasted the tenacious disease will be accepted in care
They will be banished into the cold forever dark air, where they will shiver and cringe. The world is silent waiting, wallowing for the fifth When it comes Angels, breath beneath the blacken clouds
There striking wings linger as they blow three cornets In the sky, seeping through the soundless sky sails comets
A sight for the still faithful all watch in a crowd
As the comets releases Locusts from beneath. Laying lusciously low in a most lucid state, The ***** Her words wager, weave, win through the minds, falling for false prophecy
Ripping right by the remonstration of being The ***** of Babylon
Woman and Man fall for the words, seeking haven from hell hereon
Adult to child, wishing away her whims, she is the spiritual adultery
No newly made Neanderthal seeing her for the devils zany zealotist abhor. With The ****** lies, breaches the Mother of abominations
The one obtuse and first woman to walk in the Garden of Eden
Human at first, ripped apart, away from innocence; Lilith Haste to Hate, Revenge against the rotting earth, taking away human health
The goal stupendous, shaking sorrowfully, any good is forbidden
For killing is her passion, her art, her own Revelations. The sixth trumpet signals the release of the most dangerous Soldiers
The four enticing beings of end that are released from Euphrates the great water
Their massive army mounting at two hundred million minimizes us
Useless and hopeless everyone allows plagues in their bodies with lust
All people want is death, decaying, disembodied from the soul, without a bother
The ***** still preaching, but not a single being is listening to her false words of a philosopher. In the mix of mist and swamps I continue to sit and scrutinize
Every evil endorsing embassy of hell-spawn
Floating and coating, demoting every satchel of thought
As every defecate of remorse leave me in distraught
My mind is distilled where my initial thoughts are withdrawn I empower the sour cowering stare of the devil’s eyes. I cannot look away, the steady statue stare Embracing escalated enmity, fighting for it not to invade my mind
Never knew cruelness existed and brought beings such delight It covers itself in kindness and caring as it wishes me good night
When wrathful vengeance I awake, to aspire, to find
A torture most terrifying, tossed into twisted tarred souls, my religion I forswear. A game of chess, played between each, no physical state
Dictating the defence, drawing out, hitting, harassing and hackling
Pawn for a pawn, the pound of flesh taken from the absence of attack
Everything twists and twines around each feeble thimble of thoughtless comeback
Devil sends soulless soldiers, crashing crazily through bones a crackling. Finding flirtatious moments to pass the queen into the kingly gate. I have lost; no match made on earth can win with the Devil
Although I lost, I still hold onto faith that in the everlasting end I will be acknowledge by my God, I’ll will be shown care
I sit, sore, scarred, seared of my dignity, I pray
In my mind the Lord’s Prayer is the only way I can defend
I know beyond my brave but bashed thoughts that I kept away from evil. The loudest, most holy, mind clearing trumpet rings
The seventh and ending of the biblical war
A hole rips the sky, rendering useless, entirely beautiful though
Angels dash rescuing the ravaged by faithful souls, protection from beasts below I am avenged, my mind repaired from the unprotected un-releasing pain that I can now ignore
I praise to the Lord, lavishing, laying beside his council of twenty-four of forgiving beings.

Sharing a bag of chips and scraps
and running from the rain
beneath the band stand kissing
and riding on the main
corn fields and meadows
and walks within the park
spending time like millionaires
together after dark
daisy chains and faery rings
the jewelry of the young
whom sing the songs of lovers
the older ones once sung
cornets full of ice-cream
and trumpets full of scent
accompanying our laughter
as our childhoods mis spent
I offered you the moon and stars
you promised me forever
as we cuddled close together
in the chill of winters weather
so many memories my love
bring you to me each day
and may the simple things in life
forever feel this way

367

Over and over, like a Tune—
The Recollection plays—
Drums off the Phantom Battlements
Cornets of Paradise—

Snatches, from Baptized Generations—
Cadences too grand
But for the Justified Processions
At the Lord’s Right hand.

There's an ice cream man
with an ice cream cone
in an ice cream van
outside an ice cream home
and
an Ice cream wife
make his
ice cream life
with a
I, scream
moan.

(make the rest of it up yourselves)

Greensleeves.
that's the tune
every day
around about noon
******
Greensleeves.

Elizabethan ear ache for
a Walter Raleigh or a Francis
Drake, cornets
with a flake?
Greensleeves
******
Greensleeves,
wish the man in the ice cream van would play some Eminem
then I might stop moaning.

two penneth of chips and trips t' bay
school's out for Summer
we're all on holiday
and
the budgie died last night,
but dad said,
it flew away.

The Beatles on the telly
some
yellow submarine,

being young back then in Lancaster was
just like living in a dream

and ice cream after dinner
from
the man called Mr Whippy,
he sells his cornets every night
just outside the chippie
where Rita and her husband
make fresh batter to coat the fish
and I wish that I were back there
in the passages of time.

when the bad things come
i starve them,
when good passes through
i launder the linens.

the cornets blow
and i brave up straighter,
the weather knocks, i put on
clothes.

i pay all the debts that make it back to me,
and the chores get done
eventually.

but as a friend
to a startled, starving anchor,
or as a citizen
of a chronic coughing country

i have no clue
just what to do.