again and again they kill him
by Fran Lock, with image by Martin Gollan
even now there are places where a thought might shrink –
a mind worked out and thwart with waltzy boozing, hot
with speed, still wearing all its frenzy on its sleeve. to breathe
this bitter vigilance undone. abused, becalmed, the gilded
anchors slack. to melt, exult, to rid ourselves of all those
token torments. there are places. we burn his letters in
the sink, hold them by the dog-ears of their disregard. he
was so young, and feckless in that state of being smitten.
even now the sky grows smashed to say the laggard thunder
of his name. you have to wonder. suit of clothes
coarsened into barely-man: johnson. had he recourse
to ball his fists to fossil in the pockets of his loss?
he mouths our idling maps to fire. ire-land, word
full of wasps, of paucity and nausea. he looks over
his shoulder, a convict crossing himself in the yard.
i think not. i think they do not grieve, cannot. have never
dragged themselves down streets concentric with offence
and fought another cruelly cresting thought. there are no
ghosts, striding in the violence of their migraines keying
cars. years of hopeless gluttony, and autumn has arrived,
in dejection and arrears; pyracantha, hacking cough, with
flight and threat in each averted eye. ilex, cornus,
callicalpa. we are here, touching up the hoary edges
of our need. there's a voice, drawls the collodion
strophes of his death. wooden boy, notches in his bedpost
body cut. once and always, our continuous entire.
a crow is mourning's stooge, cracked along its chorus,
wakes me, pledging feathers to the costume of my
guilt. and poetry paints its swooning mottoes everywhere.
it is no good. flowers without language, this loss: pressure
sores, eyes puckered with drink, more bleeding than is
good for beauty, the genial and fake, the frankly murderous.
there are places. some steward of a soft embrace enfold
me. you have to wonder. not expression, but escape,
wearing the bronze rosettes of brazen remedy. does he know
what it means, johnson? to spoof his mutilations in a waning
room, wearing our variant rose in the crook of an arm, on the lips
against grace, to sharpen the starving body into sleep? the clock
is an enemy, rapt with strategy. they are mostly gone, who stammered
their escape in council eyries, squats, and singing: sweet lagan, run
weary till the end of my song, till all our lustres numb, till daybreak's
craven conjuries, till kingdoms come and auld folks trade
their chitties in for loose leaf tea, till sailors step out of their shanties,
till i meet my zealous, perishable neighbour in the street and do not
spit, till i am no longer spat at, till all my gammon covenants run
blood, till my own country knows me, till i am not her inmate or
her exile, till the end of time. sweet lagan, run swiftly, till our dead
in their shining lethargy are lifted up, till the television voices
number gypsy boys among the culled. even now, as autumn
arrives with old campaigns begun afresh, we are finding ways
to kill this thought. i'd made a book his bed, the mattress
and the mire i flipped, end over end. the ciphers of a metered
time, and laid on lambswool narrowly. i run my finger round
the rim of love. it sings its whimming posey till it shatters.
johnson says no, there will be no laying down. no one to break
amends like bread. home will not be fuschia, nor a stream striven
clear. when i look at our maps i will see my grandfather's hands.
when i hold my grandfather's hand i will see blue lines
ploughed into boundaries, will see life's suffering, impaled
upon a hangnail. home will be any arbitrary nightmare, the whining
of a child-bride kept in a closet, will be telescopes trained on
an exit wound, garrote, cavort, galley-bondage; gangrene, greed
of sick natures. the hairshirt and the shipwreck. the counterfeiting
light refines whatever it touches. and by refines a kind of scraping
off. and still i hear that voice, those voices, and i have been
eating these arsenic vowels so long my tongue turns tragedian
too. lyric has this writhing sweetness to it. flags in their fascist
semaphore. he said a flag is mostly air, biddy, how a halo slips,
how a mouth is fouled. and i know and i know, but i love
the grave that grew you, boys. though all her walls have ears
inclined to eavesdrop times, though august is a punitive crescendo,
though our church had blessed the blueshirts, worn the polished
turd of tyranny, and despite the dosses, kips, the own goal in
a celtic shirt whose native language is noise. despite the bark stripped
from the trees, the necromancy of nostalgia, zombie militias
rising from the nearest limepit, haunting an english dream.
although she is a b-movie. although she is the spectacle of queer
bash and revenge porn. although she is misogyny, an enfant's
trembling rhetoric of lust. i loved you, and love makes me mediocre
with longing. you have to wonder, has longing ever possessed
this johnson like a terror? brain sticky with the latent prints
of an old pain, rising; missing a friend, a lover, a father, a daughter
whose voice made mourning? those lost and those returned. Presumed
and absolutely. a hurting fact there is no gospel for in any language.
when he wipes his arse on our peace he kills them again. and again.
those whose deaths run hot, and those whose mirror is the serpent's
mouth in trying to forget, has always been. there are places –
hanging in the aspic of our injuries. but Pig Thief, miscreant
and mutable, whose name a shadow valentine i trace across my tongue
like parma violet charm against their heresy. there is a staying with.
there will be dynasties of upturned faces, blued onto the incidental
day. the young. may their griefs be held in the palm of a hand, palmed
like marbles, rolled away, all infamies, attritions shrugged. and we will
care for them. like silence cares, like light and space, and dig ourselves
in with a gentle spade.