Fuck - James P Mannion
 
The man who quotes Marx in the morning hangs coats in the evening.
The queen who breaks hearts in the castle is quoted by Pravda
As part of the parcel of class-war, incarnate when feudal conceiving
Mistakenly sneezed at the classy old ceiling which raises with laughter.
 
The man who leaves marks on the shoulders of those who lift boulders,
Who whips round for tips from the crowd as he cuts someone down,
Has a house of his own on the outskirts of town near the wall, as I’m told. There’s
A baby inside who would maybe have died had it not been for cash from the crown.
 
On the throne sits a name; in the name stands a word; by the word turns a world.
In the first, there were curses and verses; now hearses and purses and heavy black doors.
On the thirty-sixth floor you might find them at brunch: finely plucked, capes unfurled,
Plates of duck, gates of pearl, fates of luck. We have been here before,
 
We will see this again. We will breathe in the end, but we writhe in the mean-time.
The wreath on the gate keeps a tithe on the freeman. The parson didacts  
What the Tsar manifests while the larcenous rest in a casket of quick-lime.
The bursar endorses injurious policies, sources a grindstone to sharpen the axe.
 
In the meadows and clearings those old, hard of hearing or stupid are pasteurised.
Vast, open spaces exist in the midst of relationships. Jesters play games
For the guests of the queen for the sake of a name or the fear of reprise.
In the air you can hear how the chimney-folk lived in less whimsical times.
 
In the eyes of the man who quotes Marx in the morning are terrible warnings
Of chemical poisoning, clinical suctions, subliminal messaging, culturing.
Cash in the cupboard collected in jar-form is vested in chloroform. Kings
Are the things of routine. Take a job as a eunuch, get contact, and torture him.
 
Teach him a lesson. Impeach him mid-session. Defeat him in battle. Destroy him.
Sow salt in his orchards. Dismember his gentlemen’s clubs. Kill his cubs.
Fill his tubs with red paint, dip his feet in and dye them. Completely deny him.
Pretend he was born in a stable. If able, employ him to tidy the bathrooms of pubs.  
 
The queen who breaks hearts in the castle gets more than she asked for. Important
Dispatches are hatched in the greenhouse for snatching the genius from genuses.
Thatched and congenial mansions are taxed, but the fact is that most folks ignore them. 
The Pope’s in the whorehouse being raucous and loud with a full host of penises,
 
Poking at virgins while staking his claim for eternity not spent in purgatory (hopefully).
Soap is provided in hotels where photos of Sultans consoling disgruntled Dictators
Hang over the four-poster beds which were formally quoted by notable critics as soulful
And pretty though lacking in bloodstains. The flood plains are mud-ruined: potatoes
 
And aubergines, safe on the plates of the queen and king, merely resemble a dream
To the trembling journeymen. Earning and keeping and earning and keeping
And spending and spending and spending and sleeping and draining a stream
While the fishes aren’t looking to put in a fountain and please pretty people with.
 
Deep in the pockets of those with deep pockets are those who seek office. Please
Profit and you’ve got a deal; if you’ve not, you’re not real. Shut the door as you go.
Oh, you’re here for the floor? Well, just sweep it in silence and try not to breathe.
If you thought there was hope in the future, then see my solicitor. He’ll let you know.
 

Half my blood runs Brown. Through Middle Eastern
Mountain streams, it sweeps across the ocean
Like the summer breeze that crashes gently
On a foreign shore where white rules the roost.
I’m diluted – Northumbria water
is stored within my veins, and I have the
Eyesight of my mining kin; my voice rolls
Along their intonation, whilst fingers
Made for weaving carpets wrestle with a pen.

I’m a quilt of multiculturalism
A patchwork, if you will, of skin too strong
For the kingdom’s borders; of skin too soft
For provincial life. I’m an enigma -
I serve to confuse; I’m some of what
You are, and some of something new. I am
Neither here, nor there. Some light, some dark.

A partial eclipse. 

Partial Return

I see her ahead of me, legs dangling above those states 
               separated,
Toes not fully immersed, their presence
Only grazing the surface of the iciness.
 
And the waves crash softly and it should be peace
               but her other leg is still in the seas across the world

And she would be fine

If she could hear whispers other than the water
               reminding her,
               from the barely visible yet tempting shore,
                       
                         You found it.
                         You cannot find it. 

Quartered moons - what a playlist

Full moon and a trio of cats will run 
past me wearing wreaths of green roses 
and their feet will snap in unison
and I will feel conscious of my entirely misshapen
eyes.
I desire the eyes of ponies.
I have the eyes of peonies.

Quarter moon and
I will be overrun by a gypsy more comfortable
in turquoise glitter than I will ever be.
One that waltzes in Elizabethan cotton nightgowns.
I want something sour and bitter
that reflects the flittering gravy.

Half moon and I will return to my city
under the milken sky
drenched in nylon and velour
dripping laughterlets.
There will be no maximum.
There will be no counter space.
There will be no hexagons. I am alive.

Three quarters moon and she is 
across the road with that boy who lives
across the road
and they will be content in their tin can
until he tries to eat the halves of plums
and they splice his hand in two.

New moon is no moon.

Please fall in love with me.

Fundamental Particles

He has been told that all matter is made
up of something fundamental that can

not be split in two, and the beauty
of this idea has polarised his thoughts:

he is sure that it applies to people,
that if he can reduce her to so much

sand, he will find Truth, or God. He thinks
himself a scientist, like Rutherford or

Higgs, but he derides their lack of vision
in studying the collisions of dead and 

artless things. Instead, flashing scalpel-smiles
illuminate other women as he

slowly slices up her heart, splinters her
again and again apart like scattered

neutrons with deliberate neutral glances
that pass right through her and land somewhere else.

He is meticulous, but she always
has more to give, staring with loving eyes

at the scientist of the everyday
who will bifurcate her until she is

perfect.

"partial"