‘in banality the transcendent arises’
What am I searching for? Am I looking for a book? Am I looking for the key? Am I searching for the salt? There’s always something isn’t there? A teaspoon. An address. The divine. Maybe. Or the sex thing. Walking along the seafront. The clickidy-clackedy machinery of desire.
But that’s a digression, isn’t it?
Anyone fancy winding up an orange?
Where’s the key gone?
Thinking about the murder of Julius
As his name-month swelters
And the Unitarian Doric of New Road
Houses a new busker
The formal portico is like a promise
Of something even better
Rational organisation of things
Simplicity of a sun-shaped god
The flute-player misses a note
Sparrows chip the paving
– No blood on these stones –
The next high improvisation he attempts
Disappears into the blue and out of history.
Columns indent like inert components
Of some unwieldy gear
Which has run down now and lies
Disassembled in the workshop –
Cog-wheels and grease, the smell of solder.