The frail engines of the past
                 still linger
on the fossil fuel of indoctrinated
perceptions of love,
that were a wonder of the old world.

But found to be filled though
                      ignorant filters of the present.
Prudish, falseness of male masculinity.

Were all engines of unfamiliar injections.
                   That fuel, the love bound within
the pistons of our revving heart.  
                   Fossilised yet each of us
                            still seem to be able
to ignite the fuel of others yearning.

The old engines are redundant,
                     new ages of passion
       fuelled by the spark that a generation
accepting that the fuel of love isn't singular.
                But that we ignite off any source
                that'll help our heart run in unison.

Clap for my in fake sympathy, my words are
blurred mages of how I really feel. repletion's  

Time is a distortion of what is spent just a thought
of an existence no longer pliable in this moment.

But a fossilised repetition of what was but now extinct
now extinct but like history relived in my thoughts.

On my way home from work
I passed by a *****
In a tent-sized, plain orange t-shirt.
It was forever-stained
With fossilised fluids;
A chest cavity of spilt milk,
And subsequent tears.

A double-take took me
To the green and brown keratin
That dragged relentlessly over concrete.
His sloth paws were protesting
Every step of grey existence,
In the colourful expanse of new morning;
They were clawing the ground
And submitting to gravity.

He looked right on through me,
Through everyone and everything
As if part of a hologram
That was no happier, but at least
Apart. I re-count his limbs to ensure
Whether he is even human anymore.
I surmise: only partially.

He milks his palms whenever possible
To heal the cracks of wind exposure
And old substance abuse.
This was no doorstep lounger;
He was a stray cat with no freedom,
And only washed his hair when it rained.

Then, as I later adjust my mask
In the foggy bathroom mirror,
Mind preoccupied with dissertations,
Affectations and payment schedules,
I realise that it is I who has lost my humanity.

They sat across the room from each other
Mother and daughter, alike in appearance
“Don’t you remember?” the mother said
And for that moment
The perfect image of the daughter’s previous world sat there
Fossilised.

little star,
cold and timeless,
ebbing in the gloom,
breathing like lungs,
exhale dust.

thin blanket,
old and creasing,
grey and faded vermillion,
stealing our shadows,
a penumbra.

aged animal,
majestic in death,
raising its horns skyward,
embers in ashes,
fossilised stone.

our patron,
quiet and brave,
bringer of gentlest creation,
player of sounds,
little star.

A blur that breathes, growing and abating,
tides of people, entombed in steel,
flowing and fading on riverbeds of tar.
A place of nomads,
all draped in cloth.
A place of symbols,
of concrete and rebar

Sheets of cold, ice grey
Falling spindles, cold rain
A graceful procession
With a bellyful of tears
A dreadful cortège
A heralder of fears

A young forest paved with ancient crushed stones
Nothing left but the inheritance of a thousand unknowns
Nothing left, but old fossilised bones

All that has happened is what I know
And all I know is what will happen.
All that remains is what I know
And all I know is ruin.

I stared at my open palm –
              purple speckles of a fossil unfrozen by the mere
              heat of my touch.
I stared at my hands –
              cold and dry come wintertime, layers of  
                          reptilian scales making my little
                          dinosaur claws rigid, unforgiving.
I imagine myself a warrior woman of sorts – eyes fossilised into icy hardness.
I stared at the sword in my hand and with a great swing,
              I slice the stone of youth down the middle, separating
              the old from the new, specks exploding:
                      red, blue, yellow,
       thrown across my hair.
Under layers created by millennia of pressure and grime –
      the mineral of understanding.
It gleams so that my cheeks flush red with blood from within,
                        And my neck             reaches to the sun,
             my          eyes          widen, beginning to melt and drip.
I close them.
I stared at the insides of my eyes, and
a speckled horizon stared back.

achenial planets,
yet un-spawned,
suspended, seemingly strangled,
by an indurate umbilical bind,
sway in the breath of this nascent spring
forsaken fossilised baubles,
from a Christmas you’d rather not
be reminded of

and while their skin breathes our dirt
I write my words on their
parchment leaves and rips
of litter, to leave
scattered for the rats
who live in the shade,
to read
at their leisure

History
a mystery
of facts
and artefacts
swallowed by time

evolution
or revolution
fossilised claws
and medieval wars
fallen in time

monarchy
hierarchy
ruling society
to equality
change over time

existence
a distance
from memory
a stone in a cemetery
rotting over time

shut up
boxed up
laid down
in the ground
shipped to a new time

forgotten
or a mystery
written
our history
forgotten in time

Swimming against a current so much stronger than I am,
Battling my way through the waves,
But it's becoming harder to breathe,
Harder to think,
And I find myself drowning,
Sinking further and further
Into the unknown,
Floating endlessly into the abyss,
My body slamming into
Shipwreck insecurities,
Fossilised memories,
Trapped pain in rotting chests.

All because of one tiny detail about myself that I loathe,
Loathing so much deeper than the seven seas stacked on top of one another.

ANC and Joe Slovo  

ANC took on the white-run system and won, we hoped
for a new free country and apartheid free country.
The “Rainbow Nation sprung to life reconciliation, dancing
in the streets, which have become crime-ridden by now.
But the ANC cannot rule forever, and it is fossilised
And has of lately written history that leaves out many.
Indian and white people who helped to end apartheid
Are being pushed aside like it was only a black affair.
Do you remember Joe Slovo and fought for a free Africa
For forty years, ah, but, he was white and a Jew, he gave
All he had for the cause, but now slowly like many Indians
Are pushed into the background.
I think the leadership ANC have been corrupted it will sink
To the level of Zimbabwe, they broke their promise to help
Soweto, but it is still there, Joe Slovo is no more.

still to ferry out depths
no petty parrot poems
to divvy up the score
nor ramp-up efforts


climb into lightning
totally unafraid of the scalding rods
feet out to sand dollars
cool as cucumbers
like walking on the spiny surface of an outer moon
crinoid wishes crumble like walls of an ancient civilisation
as saddle wrass masticates half-born ideas with Aristotle’s lantern
rendered sessile, bloodclotting measures kick in
as emergency repair kit carried on the sidelines
brittle stars are bandaged and fossilised as ambulacra pull tight
overgrown daisies fail to fly free and loosening pollenseeds are all caught


lick up that salty brave snot
and brace face to that taut wind
this urchin with star backed burden
bears no cretaceous page
just bobs on hope
in relatively quiet waters

We are passing through a blue
period after
a grey period: 'Surely
a green age will follow.' You
stifle your remorse. We are on
our way to
yet
another chance
for tears
in our mother's eyes. Don't you agree? Mothers
enfolded
in the depths -the depths
of land dear
to our souls - where the gods
live
steeped in their
energy. That energy
is proof enough that never, not for
one single
moment, have their hearts
departed
from that magnetic place.
               Magnetic? Of course...
Alone in those lands,
they hang on to their sadness, their wisdom,
while their children
              reach out to catch
                         the golden ring of freedom,
and the risk:

the risk of wandering on an endless,
senseless pilgrimage. Flying
like model planes? Oh,
the thrill
until -
three thousand, twelve thousand
years - they're found, fossilised in sedimentary rocks,
mothers
separated from their children, layers
and layers apart, preserved,
with a bit of luck, in mint condition
(maybe) buried
with all the things that might
be needed in the afterlife...
A movement
from East to West, following
the progress
of the sun. What

was I saying? Oh yes, we are passing through
a blue period, after
a grey period...

Liviu Ioan Stoiciu, from Born in Romania, Contemporary Literature Press, Bucharest 2014

Let's have a conversation
we've never had before
where I dazzle and surprise you
and you pin me to the floor
and the world falls out of order
in a new and perfect way
and we wake up on the faultlines
of a fascinating day
Well I know you have it in you
for myself I'm not so sure
as my hinges they are rusty
and I can't unlock the door
We have calcified in comfort
we have fossilised in fate
and I want to shake the sureness
before it gets too late
And it's not that I'm not grateful
or would rather be alone
but we owe it to each other
not to cast the world in stone
So let's have a conversation
we've never had before
let's take the wrong road home, love
and remind ourselves there's more.

Lamentations and a trigger
Questions and closed walls
Loneliness is a dark place to be
When you're a riptide in the sea

We are the hunters and the terror
And we give ourselves away
To every strobe that once brought euphoria
Cascade into the darkness of the day

At gunpoint no lies survive
As they walk the weary wastelands
As you think dog days are over
Knives find peace in hollow hearts

Darts and an anchor
Death by December
Sealed with a kiss and
Promise to deliver
Roses thriving on the remains of the night
Trampled by a stampede of prides
Crags that congregate for catharsis
Fossilised into the ground

Dusk and dawn
Dust and pawns
Lust and taunts
And we give ourselves away

One December morning I found my feet in the deep water
After a storm
As I brewed and brewed trouble
In the form of marble shards
In the innards of a porcelain cup
The holy grail of languor
Skin meets teeth
Placidity greets
Habits die hard
Victims live vicariously
Through rose-tinted glasses
Waiting to be saved
Sinners can't be brave
Like broken ocean waves

The darkest days are over
So rejoice
For the worst is yet to come
But there is silence
Silence in our downfall

Even with nine suns arising
Caressing the canvas that shrouds the clouds
Even as the firmaments fade to black
Sinners can't be brave
Sinners can't be brave
And we need someone to save us all

Save me
Here I lie beneath the rubble
With my mind in a mess
And my heart in a storm
Save me
Before I become brave again

Breathing cold vibrancy,
the earth and sun remind us
that whatever prattles on the surface
will be layered over,
fossilised,
and judged as advances
or fat, white dead ends
by the clever folk ahead

Run boy

let the wind
rush wish
to catch up
with your
motorised limbs

let the
sun set
falling want to
coo as
quick as
you can
race your
weary
smile

let the sky
and the
nighted blanket
have envy
of your
magnanimous
retreat

remember
the starry
eyes of
that boy
you
whispered
goodbyes
to
on his neck
like kisses
like
gentle breaths
like promises
the whiskered
kitten in
your heart
which purred
as he
held
your hand
so tight
you
could barely
stop the
wilted
smile
and
flooded
heartbeats from
drowning you
whole

he held
your hand
so
tight
you thought
he
wanted
to  
run too.

Nail
half crescent
imprints
of fossilised
hands
they hold you
you trace the scars
they hold you
and you
wish they
would keep
on holding on
as you
run.

Run boy
run into the sun
let the
memories
of open fields and
flower chains
and dotted kisses
trace your
heart with
strength
let yourself
run
until the
city walls are
snowflakes
against the
mountain
until your home
is only
a house
in your dreams
until he

until he is
only a shadow
on the
horizon
and you can
keep on
running
with his
words
on the backs
of your feet.

'love you.'

Run boy
so one day
you can
run on back
and

take him
with you.

The ruins peered out from behind
The blue-flecked crag
Where eagles nested.
Wind-blown, storm-tossed
Only the walls remain.
The turrets are now heaps of grass covered
Bricks, the keep a muddy mound.

Here, once were warriors,
Draped in furs, bearing swords
That glinted across the sea in defiance,
Defending the land from strangers.
Here, once were warriors-
All long gone!

Time itself has altered what once
Was considered unalterable.
When kings ruled from inland palaces
And long powerful ships caressed the jagged
Shore; now washed up on the beach
Like the kingdom they protected, flotsam:
Cruelly ruined planks of elm, distorted by
Sea and salt; masts broken and disfigured.

A once glorious people, now gone!
Palaces overthrown!
All hanging onto unforgiving Time
Like fossilised carbuncles.
Ripped from Time in a plethora of
Anguished voices dying slowly-
Calling out for resolution.

I cannot forget...
אני לא יכול לשכוח

©  STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
12 Shevet 5778 / 28 January 2018
revised:
3 Iyyar 5758 / 28 April 2018
19 Iyyar 5778 / 4 May 2018
20 Iyyar 5778 / 5 May 2018
21 Iyyar 5778 / 6 May 2018

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' (1964):
'Forget the dead you've left, they
will not follow you'

W.G. Sebald z"l (1966):
'And so, they are ever returning to us,
the dead'

I.

the Path / derekh is silent,
a vacuum,
resonating with the
footsteps of tzaddikim, whose
teachings transcend(ed)
the Kingdom of Night...

where there was no longer
kefitzat ha'derekh
shrinking of the road
jumping the Path
teleportation.

...un die vvelt hot geshivign,
taught Reb Elie Wiesel z"l...
& the world remained silent.

not existing for themselves,
the tzaddikim speak with the
Shekhinah from their throats,
and the mar'ot johanna
visions of johanna
are witnessed by breslover
chavurot on desolation row,
murmurations of starlings
overhead.

listening to them, we survive
to walk / dorekh
the Path, with kabbalists z"l,
R. Chiyya & R. Yose,
the chevraya kadisha
the holy companions,
a derekh through the sea,

away from the energy vampyrism
& relentless phantasmagoric
cyberstalking of
the phantasmagoric Queene,
who engages in quacker
cross-contamination,
while prising her mindfully
plagiarising lips (a mirror image
of a death's-head hawk moth)
for a crucifictionist wafer:

a tax-deductible, copyright charity
deduction for ontological delusions
long after midnight,
clutching her cossetted Yehu'di
hatreds like
a perforated osculatorium,
because, שמח בחלקו.

    ****

Reb Uri Tzvi Greenberg z"l, 1923 [trans.
Michael Weingrad]:
'For so long there has been no water
in the wells. Only curses. ...& suddenly
the icons scream in Yiddish'.

II.

Light is the absence of Darkness,
to acknowledge Rav Rebecca
Newberger Goldstein.
& the holy slow train moves
(when it does)
sideways across flat earths.

consider the post-Auschwitz dilemma for
an opus dei natz'ri  who cannot grasp
the etymology:

prae / before + posterus / coming after
praeposterus / reversed, absurd.

did Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan' influence the
teachings of R. Yitzhak Luria z"l ?

III.

memories are stalking & ambuscading,
& as you said, Reb David Meltzer z"l,
'the Yehu'di in me is the ghost of me'...

& now the hourglass is invisible...

the windows of perception
to be peered into,
not out of,
as hairline fractures
develop in the retinas of narrow-ruled
yellow writing tablets masquerading
as frenetic mirrors,

never glimpsing tzefiyat ha'yeshu'ah,
the expectation of salvation.

& we are here,  
witnessing cyberian corpses
erecting three-way mirrors to their
obbligato and  mindfulness for girl
children...the mantras of a white
supremacist ****** ****** trained to
effect genocide  at a distance, his
audible hungering  for the  rapture  
of an endloesung in his drive-by
dark carnival, having no
farraginous self to say farewell to.

Lilith, the Midrash teaches, ate the
'bones' of Her enemies, but the
****** uses prayer beads as
majong ***** fired from his cap gun.

IV.

'she' stands on the bamboo porch,
thinking the lotus leaves floating by
are a reflexion of 'her' crumbling
totenkopfverbaende phantasies.

long after midnight, she shrieks to
a cyberian Mytilene, her mind so narrow,
thoughts are forced to crawl through her
fossilised ***** majora, which she identifies

as a personal luchot ha'edot, the glass
**** molded by her proboscis tongue,
as it fabricates yet another delusion
of a 1967 that never happened.

'she' turns, stepping onto an
embroidered nationalsozialist
matt,  'her'eyes a frail ambassador
of demure malice.

it is a moment such as this, when 'her'
desire of wanting to have been an
Auschwitz  Aufseherin, cannot be  
masqued  as a playful Latrodectus mactans.

ephemeral fabrications cling to 'her' --
an unbroken dance of impetuous
mirrors, as 'she' remains on the
porch, clutching 'her' 'we' aliases,

thinking, somehow, they are 'her'
aharon ha'bris...



V.

interlude / הַפסָקָה

Kafka z"l:
'I am divided from all things
by a hollow space'

Shabtai Zisel / 'Bob Dylan':
'I felt that place within, that
hollow place, where martyrs
weep, & angels play with sin'

Rav Yitzhak Luria z"l:
after tzimtzum,
the withdrawal of
'ehyeh 'asher 'ehyeh,
there came to be
halal ha'panui,
'the hollow space'

R. Shabbatai Sheftel ben
Akiva Horowitz z"l, 1719.
Shefa tal [Frankfurt edition]
3.5, 57b [Hebrew]:
'Before the world's bere'****,
'ayin sof withdrew into its essence,
from itself to itself within itself.
It left halal ha'panui within its
essence, in which it emanated
and created' [emended from Reb
Daniel Matt 1995]

VI.

sh'ma...'mir veln zey iberlebn, iberlebn, iberlebn'
(Lublin Chassidim z"l, 1939)...
hear: 'we shall outlive them, outlive them,
outlive them'...

why did R. Moshe Sofer z"l teach
'Chadush aser min ha'toray' / 'What
is new is forbidden in the Torah'?

the trolls here & what they call 'poetry':
collections of letters on a flickering
moon-glow  computer screen behind
a suburban curtain,
letters having no glyphs or sounds,
all encased in Sho'ah denial...

and yet. white supremacist sock monkeys
cannot silence the memories of the
thousands of Yehu'dit children z"l
burned alive on pyres, June-August 1944,
in the holy natz'ri village of Auschwitz,
in october country.

לעולם לא עוד לעולם לא עוד

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
...with thanks to my akhim / brothers & poets,
D.J. Carlile & George Dance & Will Dockery
for reading previous drafts...
...and to the memories z"l of David Meltzer 17 February 1937-31 December 2016
& Anthony Scaduto 7 March 1932-12 December 2017...chaver'im / friends
& for the 'or from R. Paul Laderman z"l &
R. Meyer Goldberg z"l

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
STEPHAN PICKERING / חפץ ח"ם בן אברהם
Torah אלילה Yehu'di Apikores / Philologia Kabbalistica Speculativa Researcher
לחיות זמן רב ולשגשג...לעולם לא עוד
THE KABBALAH FRACTALS PROJECT
לעולם לא אשכח



IN PROGRESS: Shabtai Zisel benAvraham v'Rachel Riva:
davening in the musematic dark

I  am  no philosopher
I  am  Paul  from  The Meadows
pulled skinny  poor from the  shadows to put  a  deal of fat  on his bones

so  how  did   I  end  up   here?
what penalty did   I  accrue?

taking the  ten  point deduction for  conduct unbecoming
I  place my  attention  deficit on re-order that I  don’t  yet  forget

smothered  in the  scrim of this  Hogarthian hood every  chip toothed  blue   scriptured face
proffers  passage to a  poisonous but tantalising hook

to write the  junk  must I  taste the junk?

peddled or paddled for  a  sweeter  flight this  avenue never  taken,
hedonic ingress  unwalked,  unwanted yet  still wondered
could such  deep surrender  be   so  sweet to  allow the  most  intimate  of plunder?

am I  Dante?
corralled   around  the  streets
of a  society that  shows no compromise amongst  the  dying embers  of fallen  enterprise

eternal  damnable gyres around a  ****** **** pyre
of concrete,  glass  and  broken  humanity

with    each    uttered    breath    a    cold      cocktail    of profanity

the  bouncing soles of the  air  I  wear  may ease  me over  the  gummed archipelagos
flag  spij-speckle  guaran islands slab secure and  fast
against  the  counselled wash an  eternal  fossilised chaw
that  resists  the  fiercest chemical blast

lost in this  sea    I  cannot  be   but shaken  by the  waxy  man  with his  head  of startled  hemp and  coterie  of cracked  carbon
as  he breaches the  domestic brink

turning a key, his shoulders  hunched  in protective  shawl against

the  spittled spate
he stares  back through me
for  sightless  miles insides out,  front  to rear, then  scuffles, rattling,  townwardly

cannot resist  the  insecticidal compulsion of the  green  and  white purgatory
where  the  neatly  stacked  wash  of fluorescence makes  oven ready  your  heaven
amid the  threnodial thrum  of
a  hundred syncopated Siemens

following  that   shuffling   cortege  of  the   bussed  in dead and  dying
I  am dutiful, altar  bound, avowed and  accursed the  host with the  ghosts in this  haunted  mall lost  and  lonely  within  England’s  mountain  green
it  is no longer the  god   bothering needles and  blunts that    draw the crowds
as  flat  screened pharmacological rapture,
that  trinity  of distilled, medicated caffeination

lead   a   once   pious   nation   through   a   precocious dream

maybe Allah yet  sees  here  his
Jerusalem  and  leads his children
upon  England’s  land  of  crescent  green

Housed in a walking stick
the King stuck a feather duster at the top
fancied his fourth wife and tickled his fifth.

Ten mutton chops later
a gourd of red blood wine
two scoops of brain cutlets
he was feeling better.

With a bowl of imported shrimp in hand
battered and buttered
with chilly powder ,a chilli *****
he was getting excited at the prospect
of knocking his seventh wife
but a flagging spirit ruined his *******
and he commanded the courtyard maidens
to dance like Queen of Sheba
on the High Priests entrails
as the music beat a violent end
to heads rolling in the dusty desert sands.

Done.
He counted the bowed heads
and picked the odd number out
to even his court ****.

The cradle of all creation was found ten yards
away in fossilised rock after five years of
guessing it must be around here.

Author Notes
Parody of procreation.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.

Illusions scattered throughout time
Gaining depth and colour as they shine
Ghosts of spirits laid long to rest
Shining stars made the most of us
Yet even in the darkness before the dawn
To mankind each minute newborns cry
Propagating plants in forests high
Treetop dwellers pass silently by
Leaving nothing in their wake
The gamblers raising up the stake
As mirrored reflections paint the past
Treasures buried unearthed now at last
Bones long fossilised to rock
Worn down mountains valleys top
Seashells washed upon the shores
Lifes avenues with unkeyed doors
Shattered fault lines run askew
Remind the earth of all that’s true
In ages past the impact craters
From space the end of dinosaurs
(GE2014) (C) Reserved

It’s another beautiful evening
Quiet and peaceful
Except for the sound of my footsteps
On the coarse white sandy beach
Of clear turquoise sea
As I retrace our love path
Hoping to find your footsteps fossilised
On the sand.

But the truth hurts the most
That the waves have washed away
All your footsteps I am here to find
And the wind has blown away
All your romantic scent
That used to permeate the air
All have vanished into thin air,

It’s just another beautiful day to start all over;
To start a new memory that will linger forever*.

It would be good to be fossilised;
hard stone in deep.

We were none the wiser, I shopped the stalls,
for bread, for father was treating us to a
                                                                ­­          luxury.

He'd been offered overtime, and we didn't have it
      very often. But he knew we were down, and hungry.

Feeling the earth move, the gods were either hungry,
                                       like our empty stomachs.
Or they were punishing us for not giving enough praise
                                             for there gestures of kindness..

We heard the rumbling of Vesuvius, like an empty belly
                                                       rumbling for worth.

Then we heard the screams, as the mountain spat its
anger towards us, we had no where to run.

To hide from the mountains anger was futile.
             We huddled together,

praying to our gods


for salvation..

But our plea's  were unheard,
   had we put our faith in the wrong god!!!


Hearing the dark snow fall like pebbles and then the
                      ash of concealment.

Suffocating in our prays, we huddled tighter than
             life's last breath... and then we
            were like statues
frozen in a moment of futility...

A once flourishing moment, buried in times
                   concealment.

We were found, shells of our former selves,
                  huddled in eternity a love.

Fossilised in a last moment,
           telling the future we died together,

a moment of love shown through the ages...

would it be good to still be so hairy you could lay down in a wet field and be comfortable enough to have a sleep even though it was minus ten degrees? Were we ever that hairy? Could we make ourselves that hairy?
Science is a wonderful discipline, maybe we should be looking at that kind of insulation instead of burning more fossilised history, and opening up the possibilities of habitat instead of destroying them.

Outstretch arms,
an invitation that varies.

Chin under neck,
closure - of the door or the soul.

We sway like grass stems,
there is fragility in community - its trodden yet resilient.

The music thrums,
heart beats never end, mother, lover, heart monitor then...

Our eyes miss,
it is easier to look away than stare hoods and absence in the face.

But we dance,
forever more, in heavens above, the lovers never perish.

I see in snatches, brief encounters
touched deeper than I know.

I hear many voices, feel slight changes in air pressure
pass many ships in the night.

I am an atmosphere for good or ill
can change faster than the weather.

I am not a shooting star
all that stopped so long ago.

I will be blown into space
but by the time that happens, I will be fossilised bone.

What you were, the locals cannot tell,
Which leads me to believe
Either this was not your true place,
Or this was not your true form.
So I ask, who owned your egg-white shell?
Did you live here or leave,
Rock and stone scouring your case,
On wave crests which held you borne?

Fin sand encrusted between each bone
In time has worn you white,
Washed together with salt and sun.
To reshape and recolour.
What remains is a skeletal clone
Of your previous sight;
Those years you grew have come undone,
But does this make you duller?

There’s intrigue in your fossilised figure,
Which left to its own devices becomes less and less familiar.

as soon as it's spoken
as soon as it's heard
words   e v a  p  o  r   a   t   e
words depreciate
so we try to keep them frozen
and chisel them onto poems
with a hope, come melt-time
a fossilised facsimile resides