If I were a tree Ungovernable, with roots Extending into the mouth of fire I would crack open A swarm of bees enter my heart I would bow only to the empyrean wind The white rain, the blue rain, the green waters
You would not notice me there in the forest Amongst the others, I am not singular To the eye, yet I scour the sky With my dizzying bifurcation
I am an old elephantine beast A scarred warrior in the darkness As Orion blinks above me And a thousand thousand diamonds Fall straight into my yaw.
Veronica Aldous All rights reserved 2020
Textile stitched over leaf prints- Veronica Aldous
In my weedhood, I scampered up the sidings
Lockdown meant the people stared at me
Naked as a shorn lamb in the undergrowth
They baptised me with urine and sometimes beer
Staggering up the road with wailing lovesongs
Beautiful as an astonished baby, I emerged
Brazen in the cold sun, my clockwork heart
An orison to repetition
I am nothing but expectation
My ovules full of fruiting bodies, seed
Is my apotheosis, my ecstasy
Let bees crawl upon my breasts
My upturned hooped skirts
Whilst you stare transfixed
At my delicious flowers, my green heartleaves
Expose my inner labyrinths with one finger,
I am already dying
I pray my babies are birthed
In deepest richesse of stinking manure.
As a new hatched thing, a thing-thing Unknowing as half a cabbage To munch through This complexity, immensity This universe, and then the scalding Or lies, to put another way Of the people saving their job-jobs Their families, their money The world dams up There is a polar bear somewhere On a melting mudflat Chewing on the bloody flesh Of survival.
Saltwater burned the stars
A little Judas jumped up
Sun smashed prams glittered in the canal
I want to believe in goodness
Abstract as roast partridge flavour crisps
I want to believe in something
Even if it is stem cell repatriation.
Some days I paint only roses
Watching the colour fan out
A Chinese ballet of insects.
I know people come and go
I watched several die
My brain skidding on the endless
Disparity of my brain skidding
On dying and the actual death.
I read fortune cookies and Tarot
To determine the outcome
Of the boiling din of sub-Krystallnacht
My dear hoary ghost whispers No one gets the gold ticket It’s a knockout scam.