Damian Garside

SOMETHING

something there
is that wants to
get in through my doors
get in
through my windows

drag me before a mirror
make a blood bath of
my resignation
iron
on iron
sharpening
massacre my comfort zone

lead me out through
the jagged glass
into dark pastures
where the Earth has
opened up
is truly volcanic
and my house, once so
safe and secure, boarded
and guarded
is now a thing that
can scarcely be regarded more
than a gutted shell

FABRIC

felt the fabric
both in respect of
space and
in respect of time

hard to separate them
when the threads flow
over and under each other

before our eyes and
out into the black distance
where we
see red shift
blue shift
Andromeda
so much
gravity pushing and pulling

feel so expanded beyond
the limits of
my little self

I cannot
talk at all

OR MORE

I have a different
lover in each
multiverse

in some of them two
in a few three
in one
or two four
or more

in this
one
none

coincidentally
(so hard to cope
with the whims
of reality)

SOFA

I thought of you and I together
in a beautiful scene
shot by Kubrick or Tarkovsky

but you
preferred
to be shot
on TIK TOK
dancing your
fifteen second heart out

and so
I wrote this satire

scrapped my dream
of turning the Tarkovsky moment
into a verbal
medium

poem
you might use
to stuff an old sofa.

LITTLE

so little
all I own

so little
all I am

but the trillion trillion
star Universe
so terrifying
so beautiful

one day something
someone
out there

will
stoop to listen

SPECKLE

whole life I have been
looking for refuge
looking
for consolation

refuge from so many things
better not innumerate
bore you
waste your time
with a long, long list

but as for consolation,
have sought it everywhere
in art, in poetry,
consolation in fiction
(and yes, Boethius) consolation
in philosophy

but above all
and below

it is you
I have sought, thirsted and
hungered for, dreamt of
prayed
night and day that
if only

sought each little tiny consolation
that you might give

in every (almost invisible)
significant speckle in
your
dark, dark skin

TOO

morning
and the sky is
experimenting with
its pinks, its blues, its lilac
exploring both ends
of the spectrum
every shade in its palette

and here I am
hoping my dear that this poem
finds you
sensuous, sensory, open,
receptive

finds you
naked

for I am naked too

PUNCH

“If only she looked like Punch, Baldrick “.
Blackadder Goes Forth

proud I am, right proud,
to be able to tell you

I devised an infallible test
for poetic style and content

will tell, beyond a shadow
of doubt and any other shadow

whether
your brain is artificial
your mind binary

and your religious beliefs
collapse into social
prejudices and economic
predilections

every day of business
being
unquestionably sacred which then raises

serious theological
doubts about
any so-
called day of rest

(no one philosophically able
to punch
their true corporate
exo-
skeletal weight)

GALLERY

stumbled, bumbled
into the gallery

snooped around and then
it was I saw you thick
with the rest of your coterie

thought it was an artifact
or small item of sculpture
that you were fascinated by
that
had seduced you

but then I realized
classic metaphor —
was a genie
stoppered in an
ornate bottle no
cheap container for wine,
no not at all

so you were all acting so
superior, so artistically
enlightened
that I grabbed and
smashed the bottle

let that genie free
for they do suffer, do
tend to fall foul
of imprisonmenf
these magical
poets, artists, writers who
cannot help but
display
as altogether different
quasi spiritual and
supernatural beings

and thus
my special wish
and emerging friendship

as we
made our way together
out of the building

laughing at
the poetic justice

how wonderful it is
when it
just so happens

as they battle with the thought
of eternal confinement

at least
they have so much
time (if not
space) for
self-exploration

and a ready, captive audience,
for all that beautiful narcissism
compelled
to share