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I speak the passions of past powers,
to sew no syllables, to stitch no rules
of thumb

to follow –

knowledge hollow,

spirit dumb.

 

To pick and unpick seams,

thread unravelled, 

ravelled again,

until I fold over a patchwork quilt

aligned with the grooves on my skin...

But all’s mine is the blood of pricked fingers,

stains of creative pleasure,

soaked into bitter seas alive

with canon fire, pierced and punctured

by schemes pinned in place.

 

Immovable – even to screams,

cries, curses not their own –

uttering last wishes shaped

by another man – weightless.

 

Empty expressions.

 

I speak the passions of past powers,

to smear my bleeding thumb,

to blemish my cotton work,

become blood brother –                    to the past,

companion –               to the present,

and ally to all forthcoming.

~ written 21st March 2022