And so these soresome feet have turned their heels on this cold land
(though cold is not used merely to describe the mercury
but also as a measurement of mind and hearts
which I can only now describe as bland).
For never have I felt such ice brush by me
yet not melt at finely chosen words and deeds.
No knight can find a horse to ride in glaciers
or darkness hiding out in hazy midnight suns
and penile breastshaped guns which smile and say
‘Come suck me then I’ll shoot you in your face’
and not regarding chivalry as something even worthy to be said
this poetboy has cried and died shed many skins and bled.
It seems there is a gulf between their smiles and gift —
a gashed and bloody rift —
which hangs unspoken
always blind unwoken
never boldly broken
shoulder chiply moulded
by the unforgiving wind which only blows from
northern graceless firlined
endless faceless frozen darkly wastes.
It’s true the maidens there are by and largely fair
(although such fairness has obscured a want in depth
and womanly capacity to share her soul —
a failure to be swept up into all the
moistful juicy spasms of her yearning hole).
For a while this poetman was fooled
by what he thought was pure romance
though in the end he realised that he’d been captured
by a ceaseless nowhere-going shadow dance —
a blind-date with the daggered destiny of nothingness
along with nowhere’s ragged snowbound seas.
And so, when hypothermia had wrapped its silent weave
around his senses and a stupid welcome sleep descended
on his inkwet page, a bolt called conscience
(seemly lacking in this land)
then pricked his wordly ways to wakefulness
and realising light and heat come not from
others nor from quasi-mooning lovers
neither even from the earthly sun
(although he gladly bathes beneath
its soothing healing substituting rays)
but from some other place which he
(with just a simple cloth tied on a pole
which overneath his shoulder he did throw)
brazen false accomplices
stealing sighs yet never sighing
green from hair to toe
with faces ever-staring in the water saying:
‘Mirror, who’s the fairest of them all?’]
with nought but sooning in his soul.
© 2013, Alan Morrison