Peter Lilly: Poems

'Two others also, who were criminals, were led away to be put to death with him.' Calendar's rhythm thuds. The kick drum rattles your rib cage As collective memories and communal routines Plume like dust from that undulating skin. ..... You must wrap gifts in superfluous paper, ..... That's tradition. ..... Yet repeating acts to underline thankfulness, ..... That's superstition. Calendar's rhythm thuds And we bellow through that dust cloud, Clearing our throats and averting our eyes. THUD For the drum announces the sales THUD The rhythm is the anthem of vacation gifts. So discard the old and ugly, To find the beauty, To spend and to own.  'They came to the place that is called The Skull ' Excited skin bristles. Chill shivers the spine in want For purpose and ergonomics dim in contrast To the lights, and the efficacious movement of the crowd. ..... So much spectacle, ..... All these plate glass doors, ...

So the rungs of your ladder  became blades. But you would never chase your fingerprints as they fall, and a rumour of identity will lie on the blood-stained birthing floor, along with your name and your first pair of tiny shoes. All waiting for the teeth of scavengers. The metallic surface up here has been weathered rough like your face you have forgotten; another discarded picture, ruined by blind obsession. The wind from above whispers only despair as the portraits on currency are merely official black-ink-pop-art. Those notes of paper  take up no space, they communicate nothing, but  flitter a mocking snicker in the blustering; worthless as leaves. Echoes screech for answers in the frustrated perpetual motion of a monologue that wishes for conversation, because all your companion s took their own tributaries and disappeared in distance. With hindsight we can see that they took with them all the scraps of meaning...