CEMETERY ROAD

CEMETERY ROAD
“may not mean to/
but they do”

I’ve read that
this be the Larkin poem

by any metric
it’s a real shocker

give it its due
painfully spot on
must have
   begun somewhere

with Adam and Eve
tragic trace elements
springing out
of the big
bang
catastrophic for
the happiness of our species
                       wherever they
happen to
eke
   out their existence
East, West
North, South
     of the Continental shelf

and so me
      not yet teenage

about to be whisked, nay,
catapulted to Africa
and apartheid
South Africa
at that

far from this little British
cul-de-sac
        joy there in the sweet
English place of
pastoral they
call
   a pastoral

where my father dutifully
taught me how
to ride
a bicycle
      along the tiny tarmac roads
that slither like
snake trails
      (not
weave their way)
between the graves

not much interest in my
life

     this broken life

scheduled to crack somewherw
along the line
                pre-
programned like watch with
Mother, heartache,
failure
      sex sharp and sweet/bittersweet
vanilla, spiced, chocolate,
salted caranel
        melting pot and
set
   to repeat but
not quite
   liks clockwork
 
   
before which
(and before
       post cigarette or
thin after mints)

my father’s little dream
of upping
roots, defining
his Empire

       somehow not
translating

finding purchase, believers,
means of manufacture

will not
     let this poem end as
dead at
    point blank range
as (fuck him!)
Larkin’s does

hard to
top him for
negative inspiration