Damian Garside

ITINERARY

tell me
how far they lie apart,
as the crow flies,
these realms of
the profane and
those
sacred spaces?

Oracle
coracle

give me the satellite
photos so I might
travel Delos
to Stonehenge
plotting
my itinerary

and here I am now
in the establishing shot
you have figured for me

crossing those rolling plains
centuries before
time of the maximum
alert airbase
and tight
minutemen silos

suddenly, out of nowhere,
a great spine of mountains

upon which
the faces of Kings as
stolid as
chesspieces
(unless these are
the ones who swore
their blood oath
against royalty)

and we
who were, are,
as but dust to them

all soon
will

be gone, like gods,
like the
Great Spirit.

BY MORNING

they spent
the whole night
under the great
lychee tree

writing their poems
messages of
love
scrawled or
painted carefully
across their
bodies

by morning, a
body
of work

a collection
truly epochal

FEAST

the goddess
requested (well, yes,
being a goddess,
sort of
demanded)

a poem of me
and that I
render it to her,
furnish her with it

finding her there
beneath her sacred tree

that with her sharp, sharp
mind she might
pain-stakingly read
wrap it in
silk, satin
or velvet

keep under
her pillow, secretly feast

ARROW

was shooting arrows
picking my spot
missing everything

out
of inspiration

maybe need you
to act as
my target

strike
statuesque poses

but there again
your speed of thought,
                                 your
blinding beauty
                     bound
to dazzle
     spoil my aim

get me
to aim
too high, perhaps
too low

shooting arrows
tipped with love potion
threatening
your equilibrium with
potent
erotic poison

and yet
calling my bluff
with contempt so openly,
dare I say
nakedly?

you caught freeze-frame
striving to catch them
as they
whizz by

wonder where you might
keep it
if you managed to catch one

pluck it, so to speak,
from the sky

my best guess
telling me

in a silk-lined box somewhere,
casket
close to your heart

not to
rule out
    heavy return fire
streaming in from your
redoubt

hit me
    palpably and yet
just a
flesh wound

to get
   full flavour possible to have
to stick it
     in deeper, extremities
of joy and pain
as, desire
running rampant, I much
            mortify myself

out in the open
no chance of lovely
assassin here
pulling back her bow-string, silent
in the forest

shooting
at small, small, dodgy
creatures
I warrant mostly
mammals

once hit a
goddess (bit of
spectacular misfortune)

she
returning fire, shooting
from the hip

hit me
fair and square with
that selfsame dart

and there
I fell

in her arms, mortally
struck, wounded forever
slain
by
Athena, Ishtar, Isis,
Aphrodite
perhaps Artemis herself

done in by a goddess,
best, worst
kind of death

FULLY OPERATIONAL

three little bags
of lethal fur

at
the foot of my bed
curled up into a ball, brothers
my boys

behaving impeccably because
they evolved to do so
honoring their
obligation in the contract
which they assure me
(in that contrived
voice I am hardwired
to succumb to)
I must
have conveniently forgotten
I did most
certainly sign

little cocky predator
felis lybica, scourge
of
North Africa
apart from
a fresh coat
of paint
it is you, all three of
you,
wild as ever, still
basically the same
testing my
edges, my boundaries, smearing
me with their smell
getting their
best
handle on me

so close in proximity, until
things get
a bit incommesurate
and you
are light years away from me
going full
Schrodinger, full Lewis Carroll

living hair-triggered, yet
kind of
Zen mindful, full-on
Satrtrean being before essence
existential
philosophers

philosophers
with whiskers, and other
unfair advantages
over us
mere humans who
once
worshipped you

recruited to the all-
conquering armies
of the eternal
city

legions of you, since
the army of Empire marches
on its stomach,
entrusted
with the sacred task
to protect
the grain

whither we go, I go,
there you
go too
apparently

and here you are in a flash
out to accompany me
hot wired
for anything, flanks
and rear protected

fully operational
my little legionaries

from whom (how
the hell
exactly did
this happen?) right from
the outset
that die cast, there is no escape

every manoeuver in our dance
executed to perfection

AS A CHILD

as a child, you
wrote poetry

a form of liberation, if
not the very weapon of it

something poetic
about that
curved magazine

the brilliance of
its rugged simplicity
thing of
wood
and metal

Garand and
Sturmgewehr, you

delivered us
their love child

Tarantino’s Samuel L.
telling us
in Jackie Brown
this is
the perfect amalgam of
voice and
rhythm

absolutely essential
when you need
to clear
a whole room

and when you passed
word went out about
your deep
regrets at having
created this
sublime artifact of
deadly engineering

left us
if not with a song then
your signature
tune, and

from your grave,
that distinctive sound marking
the death
of Empires, release from
burdens

and then the legend
buried beneath that good
Russian earth

if they
were to raise you, disinterr
you

chamber
the first round

would
you fire

from the beginning always
a poet of fire

BEFORE YOUR TEAM CAN WIN

and so
they spoke

the football gods
the ones
that are there
not the ones
were elected

told us
that this shithousery final
was what
we wanted, what
we always wanted

what defines
in essence
the beautiful game

not sentimental stuff
like twenty year old way
back then
Leo Messi
cradling that little
African Arab baby
Lamine
Yamal

said this is the rough stuff
rules are only
for the rich
and powerful

what
you begged for
and so, we gave you,
at the home
of gridiron
of the New York
Giants
could you have asked
for more?

unless, lovers of defense
that you are
unsatisfied by extra time
only the cataclysm
of penalties
would
be enough to sate you

chance to
leave it

in our laps
   who in truth
          do not care for your trophies
and medals and
State sports washing
all those
things infants and
infantinos
hold
   so close to their hearts

we
love
the irresistible craziness
of the game
when it becomes fluid,
full-flowing

ten goals
in ninety, beauty
wizardry
off the charts

but
not what
is demanded
for victory, for joy
for
mere mortal perspective
on this
game of games

when
things fall as they must
before
your team can win

TATTOO

those eyes
that blazed with anger

now smouldering
with desire

what was locked and bolted,
a barred portal

now a net of
gossamer, a screen
of silk
a shimmer of filigree
to lure me in

the love that pumps
through my
heart
and veins
for you

demands this pen
writes, writes, writes

poor as this poem is
my words are

I know none
better to have inscribed
on my skin
in place you are
bound to
find

CERTIFICATE OF EXONERATION

Regarding the FIFA World Cup 2026 Semi-Final: England vs Argentina, Atlanta
Issued this day in Mahikeng, South Africa, July 2026

Let it be known that I, the undersigned, being a supporter in good standing of:
Manchester United, the San Francisco 49ers, Mamelodi Sundowns, the Natal Sharks, the Springbok Rugby Team, Boca Juniors, and yes — the England National Association Football Team

Do hereby DECLARE AND CERTIFY the following individuals wholly GUILTLESS and EXONERATED from all blame, shame, and generational trauma arising from the abysmal, unforeseen, unprecedented, historic and supremely cowardly surrender to the Argentinian football team in the final forty minutes of the aforementioned semi-final:

THE EXONERATED:
1. *Ollie Watkins*
2. *Kobbie Mainoo*
3. *And any other players who did not receive a single minute of playing time*

This Certificate affirms that the above-named cannot and shall not be held responsible for the hideous psychological scarring inflicted upon supporters of the England National Team, and English people more generally, the effects of which are likely to persist for generations.

FURTHERMORE, I take this opportunity to REPUDIATE all pundits, commentators, content creators, theorists and philosophers of football who seek to explain the defeat not as cowardice, but as “football brainlessness” endemic to English players and people — when compared to the cultured and intelligent footballing nations of South America and the African continent.

IN EVIDENCE THEREOF:
The lack of tactical and strategic insight displayed bears a telling parallel to chess, that most strategic and tactical of board games.

It is noted that:
– No Englishman or woman has ever won the World Chess Championship
– The only English-speaking World Chess Champion was American (mid-1970s)
– Victory in chess requires control of the centre
– It is impossible and illegal to jam eleven pieces upon the back rank of eight squares
– There is no recourse to penalties in chess
– Checkmate is final

Funnily enough, the manner of England’s defeat to Argentina was the closest approximation to a chess checkmate ever witnessed on a football pitch.

SIGNED AND SEALED*
In Mahikeng, South Africa
This 18th day of July, 2026

Supporter, Witness, and Survivor

LEXICON

these are
the alien words
that signify me

express
me completely,
capture who I am
in a whole different tongue

exquisite in
their orthography,
impossible to pronounce

symbols of something
I have not located, would
appear to escape me

somewhere out there
a description, definition,
so resonant
it is
the answer to my identity,
every question
ever asked