A poem by JAMES FAIRHEAD
Gravelly boots and windy coats –
they snap and flit –
‘Come, let us delay th’arachnids’ usurping notes
over our traces’ slits!’,
they cry in gaudy tones.
That one film is another’s clone,
echoing in vapid, cartooned groans
life manicured – put out for loan.
This is whorish duty for Necrofilic ravishers
of honour dead,
robbing saintly tassels about the bone,
who with their wanton light figures
inscribe imagined life, scraping gravyed nails
on slippery future shots – eternal touch!
This lost work of a Sunday Lunch!
But who am I?
The individual dissolved into a frame’s circumference.