Angelspit (R-Z)

The right of Dave Young to be identified as the author has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.
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The contents of Angelspit – page 3 – R-Z
18. Retail Pornography Blues. 19.Smell. 20. The Time Thief. 21. Unpick The Thread. 22. Vapour. 23. Wall. 24. X Marks The Spot. 25.Your or Me. 26. Zoetrope.
zeotrope images
26. Zoetrope
(from the Greek Zoe meaning life and tropos meaning turn)
Scenes from my past
emerge from inside a badly designed dust jacket.
A drama that gripped me by the roots of my hair,
REM behind the grille of my fingers.
Words and shapes merge at high speed,
spinning like ponies on a carousel.
Oh wanton images of blurred motion, oh aching eyes.
For I have ploughed the same stretch of land,
in the hope that something fresh will be unearthed.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Nostalgia is a trap and I’ve been hunting myself for years.
My pale yellow moon like a faraway coin long gazed at,
a stubborn light, my wick of self respect, flickering, still.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Although I have sifted through this morass of evidence with a stranger,
a taste of bitter stone still lingers.
The earth all bowed by the night chill, awoke and opened wide
on feeling the first touch of sunlight.
For this day I am a traveller, life’s perils infinite and unforeseeable,
On this day as I inhale the first kisses of sun through stubborn glass,
My kaleidoscope of shapes and mis-shapes coalesced,
and in the deepest furrow of this land I ploughed
I unearthed a shiny new sovereign.
——— ♥♥♥ ———
you or me images
25. You or me
(inspired by the Maria Lassnig painting of the same name)
I look at you,
a canvass of interwoven human/animal lines,
flared porcine snout and dark impenetrable eyes.
The vulnerability and desperation of your nakedness;
sagging breasts, brush stroke legs,
the hunched instinct of the hunter,
the confused state of the hunted.
Your crude, world weary mouth, wry;
mocking my stoicism with daubs of thick invective,
Inventive and rich, a fascinating fusion of reality and illusion,
confronting me in your birthday suit like some anthropomorphic she monster.
 A gun in each hand,
one aimed at your temple,
the other at my head.
‘You or me’ you snarl,
‘who’s it going to be’
——— ♥♥♥ ———
x factor images
24. X marks the spot
We enter this strange and beautiful world,
work the same patch of earth, trawl the same tank of sea,
hankering for a miracle, or love.
And when found we watch it separate from our body,
like a shadow on parole. See the boundaries dissolve.
Words enact the mind in motion,
a shifting, shimmering dance, as endlessly transformative
as the world we journey, like the subtle curve and fluidity
of shapes on the page or in the sky.
See them merge with disjunctive energy.
X marks the spot where the ink runs dry
—— ¤¤¤ ——
She became a voice,
lip-synched to ‘tears dry on their own’,
the magnesium strip burnt her cheek in the spotlight.
And you’re left holding the language of syntactic ambiguity.
A life sentence to edit from your mind
the echoing click of her double crossing heals.
She became a hawk,
gliding low over the valley.
Outrunning its shadow, her talons on show
sweeping smooth on the wing to your heart in hiding.
X marks the spot where your blood runs cold.
——— ♥♥♥———
wall image
23. Wall
I offer you my heart. my heart the wall, often exposed and unsupported, covered in graffiti, spray painted with unfulfilled messages of love, scratched with threats and accusations, an old disdain of sweet talk and excuses, brickwork fired with dreams now tainted, designs the hooded artist sculptured. A smeared white wall that fears the weight of the hammer’s fall, like the judgment of Hermes, a verdict cast around my feet – a tumbledown of dust and rubble, ’til I stand waist deep, stone faced and small.
My heart the wall, at times a love cemented, a steadfast Flemish bond, a lean-to anticipating the thrill of a first kiss, her clean slate of a body pressed up against the brickwork, a dusting of mortar caressing her shoulder blades. A moments bliss.
My heart the wall, at times by-passed, taken for granted, ceramic cracked, weakened from the weight of expectation, oft in need of restoration. Build me a buttress and a safety net, to capture the pieces that crumble and fall.
My heart the wall. Designed by Hadrian, strengthened by Severus. Protectorate, save me from the wrecking ball, arm new lovers with spray can and chalk so they may ever –
write on me at their pleasure pleasure
write on me at their leisure leisure
write something considered so I may measure
write something soothing so I may cherish
write something loving so I may treasure,
my heart the wall.
——— ♥♥♥———
vapour images
(Written before my eldest sister’s death, I have since edited and re written the following poem to reflect the impact the death of a loved one has.)
Diane (Diana): etymology – rooted in Indo-European meaning bright sky and daylight.
22. Vapour
Beneath the shadow of a broken cross – flanked by a cloak of frost –
he swallowed a bitter stone – opened his arms – and chased his darkness to the edge.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
The water had an honest chill
Body submerged. The blue lines of his milky limbs
sent ripples to the shore like folded messages.
Regimented arms by his side – hair fanned out, peacock tail tugging at his scalp.
Down down down into the elephant hide murkiness.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
He did not know when things got really bad. No one did.
He had tried to make it right.
But remained distant, frustrated, like the lung bursting run in vain
as the back end of the 12:05 teased him.
A gathering madness of unanswered questions swirl above his head
like helicopter seeds.
What secrets to her heart had been held inside?
Why did she believe the hemlock lies? All those years of never knowing
Alma ausente – we had all benefited from her kindness. Well almost all.
Her open mouthed gust blew east and west and north and south.
The solemn February moon flicked across his face like a squinting eye.
In desperation he tried to breathe in her wind as he tread water,
but the weight of the bitter stone and the taste of metal,
like a shard of shrapnel, bequeathed to him from the kick she took
one cold winter night, stopped him – and she was gone.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
The rocks beneath his feet, born out of catastrophe,
sucked up his thoughts and playing God with his embattled soul, released him,
and with it a giant exhale of relief, a hurricane of joyous memories,
leaking from every duct and oriface.
Spherical. Rising. Visible from space.
——— ♥♥♥———
unstitch images
21. Unpick the thread
At day I see your name,
all curvaceous slender lines,
perform aerial ballet like tails on a kite.
It skims the tips of tall trees,
billow from the canopies of roof top extensions.
Swoop and glide down gully’s, across pitted wasteland,
to scale the courtyard wall in my tower of dreams.
Are you the one to unpick the thread,
sewn across my eyelids, a sequela of stitched up schemes.
At night I can inhale you from the warmth of my pillow,
hear the speckled beat of your strawberry heart
as it ebbs and flows beneath your skin.
You make me sigh like guilty dog,
with thoughts of  fire in your kisses,
in anticipation of your organza tongue.
Temperate. Still. These things can be sampled,
these things can be done.
If only you could smooth the mound of tangled bedclothes
that is my dreams, my skin an aging patchwork of restraint,
– the patina of self – and show up in my reality,
to expose this loveless tapestry,
a warp and weft of strung out waste,
that had me back and forth and then displaced,
where my declaration, spoken in haste,
jangles inside my head like a misplaced coin in a spinning drum.
And if you did I would offer you a clear pool
so we could reflect. We would dive together. I would undress you, tenderly,
with finger and thumb exposing your dancers skin
each time a button slips its cleave.
At night I listen, thinking you are there,
below the shameful light of my dormer window blind.
At night I leave a gap, no forced entry required.
your slender frame to find.
To  unpick the thread and free my eyes.
——— ♥♥♥ ———
time images
20. The Time Thief
Love won’t give in.
It may have me where it wants me,
a spinning coin of heads or tails.
Your beautiful eyes walk the space between friendship and love,
then close at the flick of a switch. I look up from the street
into the sweet darkness of your open window,
black as the raven that cries its tuneless song.
Coy stars may stir and audaciously flirt at night, yet in retreat
by mornings light I am served grey skies for breakfast.
The time thief has been at work, a mute lengthening shadow
running for cover, with his pantomime villain laugh, his gloved hands carrying swag.
He can steel hours from my stuttering clock
or summon up a rain cloud to melt your number from the palm of my inky hand
and watch it drip from my fingers into pavement cracks.
He can toss a pebble into a glass pond and gatecrash my dreams
or stare into my heart and invade the space between us with crashing silence.
When I loved I thought that was all I had done. But no.
How can I win, how can I lose?
Say it again – love won’t give in.
smell images

19. Smell

I smiled at you,
I found comfort in your language,
I searched for you in the night sky
I found you sitting on the tip of a quarter moon,
I did not ask. I fell, I asked…I fell for you.
I touched your hair,
I fed you strawberry’s, their red hearts fit to burst.
I bathed your skin,
I bit your lip,
I whispered your name,
I sheltered you,
I listened for the soft give of your breath…until
—— ¤¤¤ ——
I could smell you on my fingers,
I could smell you on my skin,
I could smell you on my clothes,
I could smell you deep within.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
You could not wait,
You showed me and stroked me,
Your nostrils flared as you feasted with your tongue.
You let me in your bed, your body arched silently,
like the ripple of Eastern silk.
You stitched question marks on the lids of my eyes.
You divided opinion,
You let me play around with my words,
and all the while as I nursed your breast in my hand,
your heart, like a terrified bird, beat fast against the cage
’til your handmaiden’s eyes fell silent…and then
—— ¤¤¤ ——
like a dog dreaming of open spaces
I ran to the shoreline where your scent went cold.
I beat the earth and my stomach churned
at the thought of your smell consigned to history.
I prayed alone, I prayed to the crowd.
I cried in the gloom, I bit my lip,
I cried out loud.
I watched moments lapse and hours die,
you were on the tip of my tongue…until
—— ¤¤¤ ——
I buried your smell today,
preserved forever in a foreign field,
sunk deep into the musty earth
like the bones of dead soldiers.
I buried your smell today,
no graveside vigil, no grieving bouquet.
Only the oxygen of relief in a foreign field,
I buried your smell today.
——— ♥♥♥ ———
retail images
18. Retail Pornography Blues
She arrived gift wrapped,
a fanfare to the Gods,
unfurled on a crimson carpet,
legs shimmering in silk,
body hugged in camisole.
The smell of vanilla in the well of her clavicle.
Star attraction. Consummate performer.
Actress eyes, camera friendly smile
hands deftly placed between her thighs.
Effortlessly coping with the awkwardness of the sex scene,
she took his hand and placed on her flesh.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
She wanted a wedding. A groom, a ring,
an ivory dress and a room full of friends
to shower her with applause,
bouquet in arm, milking the plaudits centre stage.
Like a warm sun the spotlight circled her breasts,
her neck, her face,
framing her in ambient light.
No rain on  her parade.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
The world became her market place,
the bazaar, the emporium, the out of town mall,
the one stop shop, the internet.
Strutting the pedestrian precinct,
rubbing shoulders and mouse clicks
with merchants and pedlars, vendors and traders.
No talk of boom or bust or never never,
her stock in trade was shopping lust
—— ¤¤¤ ——
Everything was kept, labelled and stored,
filed and boxed, archived and stacked.
Preserved for posterity like a giant time capsule.
A curl of wispy baby hair,
greetings cards from Christmas past,
letters yellowed with age,
a collection of polaroid snaps
she should have labelled pornographique.
The haunting sorrow of a sailors cap.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
She remained faithful to her one true God,
fiscally stimulated by the chink of cash machines,
seduced by the revolving door,
sexually aroused by the neon,
the swish of tissue paper and the smell of leather.
She loved the throng, the jostle,
the stimulation of the deal,
the click of the credit card
and the playfulness of the window dresser
at her tableau vivant.
The changing room whispers
and the click of heels on wood stained floors.
A gap in the curtain,
she cups her breasts, she fingers her hair,
cashmere on skin, a lung full of pleasure,
a purr as she catches her reflection in the mirror.
The ‘you look sensational in that’
plucked from the highest branch of the compliment tree.
She’s not finished yet.
The taste of lipstick
from the tip of her pointed tongue. Mammon. Temptress.
What luck. Her size. The claret dress,
a river of wine that hugs her flesh,
teeth unzipped so her hands can explore
how good it feels.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
The numbers kept crunching,
the variable rate spat like hot oil in a roasting tray.
The fatted calf was killed.
She relentlessly dined on the flesh on the bone
while over her right shoulder the bones stacked
until all the flesh was gone.
Now she is owned by someone ruthless and unforgiving,
a pseudonym with a jaunty signature,
ready to sharpen his blade for profit and gain.
For you are his property now,
one of a million corrupted souls,
he’ll have her hands bound and watch
as her gaping mouth gags and retches
cheque stubs and statements and credit cards by the dozen.
He will vomit letter on letter of requests for payment.
No time for redemption, no time to repent.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
What can she do?…who can she turn to?
The answer is framed in a million cash coloured pixels.
Oh Carol
I am but a fool
darling I love you
though you treat me cruel…
What would we do without you…national treasure,
telling us to all to consolidate at our fiscal pleasure.
And she does, legs wide open,
cunt moist with anticipation,
ready to pelvic thrust her way out of her own personal recession.
Hatching a rescue plan,
minimum gestation period, gas and air only,
otherwise she’ll be in breech of contract.
‘I need a million dollar baby’ she cries.
A baby swaddled in crisp twenty pound notes,
a treasure chest, pound coins for eyes
and a piggy bank mouth.
‘Life is about choices’ says the voiceover,
letting it hang there like Chekhov’s gun,
the twat with the camcorder and the smug expression,
cheerily borrowing twenty grand without a care in the world.
She licks the screen to taste the virility of his words,
another monetary orgasm to ponder.
She cracks the egg and swallows it whole,
a lactating yellow breasted money cow
that whisks her up to another peak,
a souffle of stiffer interest and toxic rates.
—— ¤¤¤ ——
How long –
before she gags on albumen and yolk?
How long –
before these pantomime villains encase her in their shell?
and have her crying like a baby in their nest.



5 thoughts on “Angelspit (R-Z)

    Roger Fish said:
    March 20, 2013 at 10:53 am

    I’m sure you took plenty of time to craft this Dave but it still manages to convey a stream of conciousness quality that I like very much. Each succeeding image seems to tumble from the proceeding one effortlessly to its conclusion. Nice job mate.


    Roger Fish said:
    March 20, 2013 at 6:24 pm



    daveyoungpoet responded:
    July 11, 2013 at 8:24 am

    Failure to reply – guilty. Thank you for your observations and support. Here’s to unearthing something new, as the final poem of Angelspit says…watch this space. Dave


    Roger Fish said:
    July 11, 2013 at 8:50 am

    You’re forgiven. I live in anticipation of seeing the hopeful glint through life’s daily marl.


    willowdot21 said:
    August 20, 2013 at 7:06 pm

    skillfully told!


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