Posted by: nickwardscenarios | August 23, 2013

‘tryptch’ for Donald Howarth

Furnivall Gardens
Hammersmith August 2013
betwwen 1pm and 1.25pm (apart from the coda which came later)

Only Glenda knows

Did this place survive the onrush of cessation?

River so close
to this busy busy road of monstrous four-strokes
fueled by blood and the spoils of war

The river was on the ebb
so many living dead as I was, Donald, as I was
was Glenda’s great face
pressed against the glass?
Or did she hold her peerless grace
with space and excitement and desire and anticipation
until the dressing-gown caught in the back wheel
of the two-stroke put-put following her, in the back of a bus,
en route to her honeymoon in Chelsea?

Only Glenda knows

As for myself in this place of everlasting peace
(there’s no right time)
I would like to say I cease to exist
were it not for your gentle kind embrace
and offer of ice cream
when the tip of anxiety brought past to
‘there’s never one reason for anything’
unless humans can breach the flood wall
to plentiful fish with one reason for everything.

the one
trilogy of triangular tracery
or some kind of prayer
that managers might not be mad
and multiple-joking playwrights
may prove invaluable to provincial intellectuals
from austere north
now in their childlike 80s
gentler and kinder men there never were
– excepting perhaps the one
(to paraphrase Ian and Tynan)

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