Two Poems by Iain Britton
laughing sickness
birthing ideas
is a pervasive mix
what happens
when your text leaves the phone
and shoots through the infinitesmal tubing
of highly-strung nerves
what happens
when you crash the car
into a slab of rock
sniffing
roadside junk
what then for slackness
a mangled scene
for mouthing off about hot-beds and flare-ups
heads popping from plastic bags
do i blame the prick
who lives in my kitchen
cupboard
this obsessive compulsive
stuffed full of cornflakes
reacting badly against the
fuss / the adulation
do i believe in this life
of diminishing sand dunes
the sideways scuttle
of the crab / the narcissum
of a laughing dolphin
i trip forwards
against frosted glass
the vagueness of figures
this conversation
on another phone
of commas dropping
you force me
into a deep-sea somnambulation
which feeds on fish
flesh-coloured corals and kelp
where sores
and
pustulating bites
are tallied up
i turn this sickness
into a curative deposit
to be sucked
dissolved
you’re not shy
coming forward
to dominate
the intake
the myths
the rapid-response mechanisms
of a landscape’s turmoil
you sign autographs
for anyone who thinks your name
could be useful
on the hour /
you wash and dry this hole in the wall
this serialised
existence
until it sparkles / gets on
your nerves / sparkles
the woodwork splits / gets on
your nerves / you wash and dry /
the day is done / undone /
until it
sparkles
pop culture
the study
is transitory / visual
the black girl
sleeks back her hair
fingers the unblemished sensitivities
of her skin /
the eyelashes uncage the fullness of her lips
i outstare this entrancement
i colour her red then blue then green
she remains in triplicate
someone’s lover
a lunchtime caller
a logo of undulating lines
lighting up the horizon
she remains a public fascination
to be repeated
the white girl
is all curls and long shaky rhythms
her mouth
shoots kisses
at moths
electricity flickers
and i step up
to her series
of morphing heads
heads which betray a variety
of poses / heads which don’t smile
or smirk
they just deliver
noncommittal glances
an array of blank landscapes
where no foreign body
wants to plant itself
i volunteer to parade
before likenesses
of Mao Zedong
Indira Gandhi
The Winged Avenger
i parade before onlookers
their muffled sounds / their shufflings
before a projector’s vision
my face
ghosts
blurs
kodak-cracks
three screens
there’s this
exhibition of an apartment
drawing itself
this hutch of fantasy
of words connecting
mouths lips tongues
3 minute slobberings
unidentifiable genders
locked in experimental hits
there’s this man unsure of which wig to grab
this woman trying on hats
these faces swapping masks
people drinking through their cosmetics
and ululating to the moon
the girl in orange
who after the first visit
first courtesies
after being ushered through the door
where no one lingers /
is magnified
deified
she’s part of the popping of silver balloons
the helium-pumped frivolity the floating
nebulousness of party-goers
is honoured above voyeurs / art connoisseurs
collectors of human heads / the saviours
the damned / is honoured
above sheep goats swans / above
the female versions of lush blondes
she’s wired herself up to the neon heartbeat
of Times Square
Piccadilly
the Bund
she’s the girl who unrolls her long slender self
who always hangs by her arms
above the glitz-gassed cities
sometimes lighting up her legs
for the astronauts
flying home
for the seeing-eye angels
who’ve come to talk
about this man this girl
these rainbows
born out of wedlock