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
poems 2 die for 