"waxworks" poems
* dedicated to Rene Magritte *
An image of my grandmother
her head appearing upside-down upon a cloud
the cloud transfixed on the steeple
of a deserted railway-station
far away
An image of an aqueduct
with a dead crow hanging from the first arch
a modern-style chair from the second
a fir-tree lodged in the third
and the whole scene sprinkled with snow
An image of a piano-tuner
with a basket of prawns on his shoulder
and a firescreen under his arm
his moustache made of clay-clotted twigs
and his cheeks daubed with wine
An image of an aeroplane
the propellor is rashers of bacon
the wings are of reinforced lard
the tail is made of paper-clips
the pilot is a wasp
An image of the painter
with his left hand in a bucket
and his right hand stroking a cat
as he lies in bed
with a stone beneath his head
And all these images
and many others
are arranged like waxworks
in model bird-cages
about six inches high.
Apr 27, 2010
Apr 27, 2010 at 9:19 PM UTC
We are the waxworks that melt in the sun
the colours that run through the day
we are what's left when the days work is done,
the last colour of crayons that melt in the sun.
In the explosion of thought and ideas
the second sight of the seers goes blind,
the lion seeks comfort in the woolly coat of the sheep
and in the fallout shelters where the cast offs weep
the followers sleep.
I weep not for the waxworks nor for the sun
but for the colours,
for the colours will run and they'll run
anyway when the day's work is done,
we are the waxworks that melt in the sun.
In drips and drops until it all stops, when
the heat fades in the memories that shade you
from the harsher realities of this life's
inequalities and you'll think that you've won
until you take off the goggles and see
we are the waxworks that melt in the sun.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 6:07 AM UTC