You are already loved, by the blue hour
By the cold road when you wept
Into his coat sleeve
Snowflakes all round
With the shops mockingly colourful
Tess walked on in the unweeded garden
Cracking snail shells which foretold her demise
Angel Clare such a useless article, with a harp
Of all things.
She took to her bed with a man
She didn’t know and that was
A rum story.
I caught a cold from a French film
Wrote my own subtitles
The cat in the car park understood
Why I had taken up smoking again.
Home is sometimes exactly
Between the light on a hoarding
And the Imperial Dragon Chinese Takeaway.
You were there all along, Monsieur
Sweet and true
Anything is possible
But usually it is the simplest solution
Which is also the most beautiful.
All Rights Reserved Veronica Aldous 2019
The painting is also by Veronica and is called ‘Satie’s Bird’ It is available on Etsy for £350, please contact me if you are interested in purchase
I have my head stuck in a bush, maybe my head is a bush already. It’s of full thorns and coiled up ferns. Maybe it’s like Christ only I am not very holy.
I am meant to be concentrating on making good or mortgages, or something.
But I keep thinking about ink and how nice it is to spit out words.
How nice it is under here, I can see poisonous berries and a wren.
Drawing by Veronica Aldous
Veronica Aldous all rights reserved 2018
I am not doll, but sometimes wish to be
Featherweight, a flying thing with tinted wings
A flowing dark dot in a minnowed brook
A tiny teacup full of lime green juice
Drink me, they say, eat me, I don’t.
I have a way of looking
Which is astonished bewilderment
A little sharp razor which is words
A dob of paint and a needle to stitch up
Any seams that pop
Sometimes my legs and arms are fearful
The joints pulled out so they dangle
Those are bits that no one sees
Other times I slip gracefully into bed
Wearing my butterfly pin and my silver wig
I am guessing you wish to love me
After a Fête Galante of chat ups?
But do it the way of a witch
Mind the buttons and cotter pins
My indifference to mortal things
Remember I am antique.
The Black Earth of the Arawak.
The sun broke the sky into three pointed stones.
Eye stones, keep stones, earth stars, voices
Tall girls were washing the string from juicy leaves
To weave into baskets to crush the toxic sap
From a giant root.
We may be eaten by men or dogs he told them
The water glittered, and a pinkfaced monkey chattered
He traded for some iron to cut the Spaniards
The way they cut up the womenfolk, only worse
If there was a worse way, he would find it…
They were the wrong people, they were just a family
Eating their bread and praying to a paper saint
Before they were felled beneath the tools.
A double rainbow spilled over the spent volcano
The two-note bird shrilled in the wet undergrowth.
Now we are as the Caribs
Except we did not eat them
all rights reserved 2018
I am not one of many; I am one who knew
The volutes of your labyrinth
A sliding hand on the inner skin
The wall where pain had snagged
And wrought its patterns now overlaid
With sorrow’s bark; some sores still wept
With my hand which heeded pits and scabs
And made them call, O I said
O you replied
You whispered of his scarlet sash
and I said;
Corals are living bones.
Veronica Aldous 2017 All Rights Reserved
When I awoke
With that cold apple in my hand
They asked me
‘Is it faith or conciousness?’
As I couldn’t speak just yet
Being numbed by the chambers of my heart
The diastolic interstices, the silence
Mirrored all silences
The space around the fruit more lambent
Than the flesh, core and skin.
Veronica Aldous 2017 All rights reserved
Lean from cafes, mobile in one hand
Anchoring the space to some island
In their heads where there is chance
Lush encounters with Paraguayan dancers
Dreamscapes of foreign travel
An idea coalescing , germ of stories
Snippings of conversations, clinking
Coffee cups, glittering impenetrable lives
To take home and whisper into the corners
Of an empty room at midnight.
I am there with them. I watch them watching
Impotent as Canute before a sea
Of semiotics and a thesaurus of possibilities
I am waiting for something
It will come.
Copyright Veronica Aldous 2016