Tim Bromage

Posted on: 25 Feb 2014 by Tim Bromage



From this abysmal vantage point

Two clouded lamps shall first outstare

The plaster  

Then the void

Still wrapped in heavy morning gown

A carapace all emptied out

Laid on the boards

Feet slippered still  

Upon the rug


About the mouth

The hair that gleamed with bitumen

Now cracked and sadly dull

Fingers sharp in rictus

Drawn up about his chest

Far from the beak

And equine bones that pry

Into the unsung contents

Strange and secretive


Each tiny mark sings out a harmony of unheard words

A scratch denotes a scuffle

A huddle nefarious

Thin fingers slender dip and pat

The chasms lined in silk

A slim white lance with which to spear

An elusive silver fish


The machinations of their grief did manifest

Into a slow and unremitting sore

That galled the two until perhaps

Little reason did remain

The fraudulence so rampant

Drove a wedge

Between the wizard and his learned friend


Despite the tricksters protestations

No explanation did suffice

Small treacheries did multiply

In the furnace of their faith

Doubts remained

Of ghoulish hordes in gas lit rooms

That queued to make their presence known


They spilled from eyes

and ears   and mouth

Shook the doorframes

Beat the walls

And with the rosewood furniture

Led a most perplexing dance

Clambered naked and exciting

Into laps


Pen and padlock parted there

The white eye shuddering’s

Drew wealthy admirations

That under day lights scrutiny

Soon fell apart

The horse hair lies

And box wood paws

Were held to public ridicule


So when at last he grasped the salmon 

When he bludgeoned down with the blackjack lead

When he split the guts

And with a drag scritch scratch

Scraped clean the amber mysterious

He sat and he watched the tin dragons advance

He heard the words of the horse chestnut’s lisp

At the base of dirt track barely recalled

In a copse at the heart of the God golden sea


Image: 'A Na', ]Performance Space[ London 2014. Photo by Marco Beradi

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