AUBADE for Tom Raworth Split light, densely unequivocal Some sick in the cereal Puffy in the cot Fat in the artery Eyeless we bevel Our own extraction pads Against the spleens Strewn in the corridor Some would wish For less all the time. Love Poem O! To be in it so in it that throughout The curvature of the body each of each Cell trembles within an immaculate breath. Dirtied fingers pulse their own tips Sweet to lack these unsavoury thoughts Slip through the trellis of palms, arms Necks and unassailable dreams of Momentary happiness, fragmentary Air of that snatched and stolen, Dig the thrown irreverent garden, Ciphered ink of the pang scratch Return trinket of criminal excess Fictive granted to the bound Less limits so love’s law the transgress Hot buttock in pinker truck In love’s work the genitive oblates That this particular reinscribes As the capture of fantasy’s own Demarcation of property rites I’ve been half in love with love Tethered to half this death But every possession is marked By its own undoing, this giving Without being given that within We stand in love to fall so trying To fall whilst slipping not to stand The complications of having and giving Of being had to the given: Love’s gerundial at the interim of ethics & the imago, we capture our best For the worst, trying to untie the making Of better from the forbidden, so biding, A tryst in neuter of the fantasy of genitalia A currency of bitter failure and damage, It’s the idea of the you that must breach To you through what it makes in the I, If everyone in the world could give me What I wanted, I would no longer be That pitted against the every one, so nulled, The ligative loosens against the tightening So refuse cuffing against yr wish, In sprung the new season now Throw all the jailor’s keys in the lake, Dream to breach the dream’s versus Of un-conditioning the conditional So excess as a stem of what is (im)possible Now flowered so crushed to real And burst open the cell walls against This auto-immunology of common feeling. Four Short Lyrics I The unfurling assonance Of verbiage, Impossible solace In the age of Tender gardening, Trowel furrows A knot wedded Fingers in disarray We clamour pains Don’t open I want You just on hold A fire licking the Edges of foreclosure II It is warm on the porch. The sun sets, and I, Having little else, An addiction to intensity, a spark thrown Out, denying its own, Imagine a desire Scatter it around. O words, Is that to be, a man These garlands of feelings, thought Vesuvius, But rather more a belch. Small birds Fly out our wounds. III Readily, to will to unfreeze the blood I set myself a side and lay next to it Sleeping in somewhat of a ditch full of shit and potpourri smell the drains And the requisite legwork Of crawling up the leaky pipe of the heart Burdened by a fantasy that begets itself. IV I am out of love with time Its joints lay heavily on mine There are threads, bows, stitches That carry it Straining at the seams, When they swing Which way do they break?
Ed Luker is a poet and writer based in London. He is finishing a PhD on the poetry of JH Prynne. He organises the sporadic reading series RIVET. He is currently seeking a publisher for his latest chapbook ‘Compound Out the Fractured World’. You can see his work at www.edluker.co.uk.