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Poetry Magnum Opus

Being homeless


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It is snowing fire in the eyes of passersby, the leopards of my mind are camouflaged on a balcony for hire, the ghosts of the homeless retain that hunted
Haunted look-they join me but don't feel the cold as we pass coffee houses, the ghosts empty their rucksacks of moons, drivers don't see moons crossing or the homeless either.
In Pearson park Zachariah jumps down from his podium-he will only talk to the isolated and dispossessed and asks me how long I have been without a home. Pearson offers me a place on his monument then tells me he doesn't believe in ghosts, who is genuinely homeless I enquire?- as he pulls someone out of the pond who looks exactly like me. In Pearson's eyes I am airborne gliding on feathers of fire, erasing memories of crying homeless charades, geese arrive
hymning the faculty of flight. I have to exit my nocturnal epiphanies, walking through spring bank cemetery a ghost uses me as his sleeping bag-I can see
his dream as he passes through endless doors and corridors and our dreams
Collide when he enters a house I am building in which I am in several places at
Once as the bricklayer, carpenter and roofer. I am disturbed by my friend the ghost his past selves are pursuing him, he hides in an empty room. I have had dreams in which nothing happens ,slept in the doorways of empty shops and dreamt all night.
The cold is preserved within me after sitting in the park conservatory for an hour, I must resemble a flask. Sleeping in the tunnel on the track between Goddard avenue and Chanterlands avenue is as precarious as a seagull clinging to driftwood, the tunnel stores echoes of fire engines and ambulances-the sirens resemble the rhythms of speech, did anyone die in here alone?, indifferently.
To the government the homeless are like the sphinx, remote, immovable and inscrutable, but they have not seen the sphinx's sinuous breath stroking the sands, incarnating sages, raising stages, releasing caged perceptions. Sleeping in the back of the deep the moons hands are gloved as it steals painful dreams without leaving fingerprints. I wake to a flash of driftwood in the waters plus a
hint of kindness from a stranger who gives me a pound coin, perhaps I could persuade the river to walk with me or invite the estate agents to talk as the shutters rise the coin in my pocket seems to get heavier. I pass two of my homeless friends , they are like two flaming keys on either side of a door, they do not possess the inner scaffolding I have constructed.
Does anyone else feel the pull of a pendulum as geese fly between east park and Pearson park-the homeless are scattered numbers from a shattered clock. I hope the winds shake the clock face , why don't the authorities trace the movements of the missing?. People pass me walking dogs, I have an angel on a lead, Heaven is heaving with demolitionists debricking Hell, sealing up wishing wells and walling up eyes. I pass a charity shop and see a figure in a snow globe standing outside a house-in the city centre a busker sings silent night but people don't seem to notice, he seems alarmed at the lack of fire in
fellow citizens.
If only winter would lend me it's fur coat as I sleep on a field with horses on a field near first lane, the police helicopter wakes me, a rook shakes a worm, one
last dreaming horse refuses to wake, a robins red breast burns in the frost-winter our frugal host has hidden it's harvest and raised it's costs. I had a dream about the ghost of a butterfly hovering over a glass case attempting to trace it's earthly form, I pass a house I used to occupy-it is empty still.

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the moons hands are gloved as it steals painful dreams without leaving fingerprints


Um.....wow. :)


I used to occupy-it is empty still.


Not "I used to live in." Not "I used to own." But the neutral "occupy". Sad, evocative piece.

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Such a sense of political irony enveloped me as I read this bleak piece. For Hull City was recently named U.K. City of Culture for the year 2017.... Though I doubt the current relentless demonising of the poor and vulnerable will abate. The mile wide Humber reminds me of a time when England was at it's peak of wealth and empire... and how badly the common people fared. Old lines from Charles Kingsley are still apt: "Oh England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high. But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I" B.

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Ok, folks, time for some cleanup. We don't need a situation like this one:


Russian 'kills friend in argument over whether poetry or prose is better'




Unproductive posts in topic deleted.





PS --


Barry, if you want Dave to "take a look," send him a pm or email.

Here is a link to an index of my works on this site: tonyv's Member Archive topic

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Thank you, Tony. Personally, I likely would have killed Kant. ;)

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