Saturday, August 21, 2010

That's her

I asked no-one
to point at me and say

That’s him
That’s the poet

But you are different
You walk right through me

from time to time
And if I hear your footsteps

your handmaidens
are never far behind

on the strand with
sea-breezes in their faces

or by that fountain
where anyone can be inconspicuous

or looking like a mother of two from Howick
at a buffet-breakfast

or supple limbs pulling her through
the clear blue of a swimming pool

They trade upon their special blend
of insecurity and seduction

a touch on the arm
an ambiguous diamond ring

and stories about the father of a child
or one who might father more

in a future that circles gaily
like a merry-go-round

So I sometimes hear your footsteps
as you pass on through

getting lighter and lighter
and further and further on

Grant Duncan 7.8.10

Friday, August 13, 2010

In paradise

In paradise
even the whores are honest

it’s like the united nations
but without the politics

and no-one understands
and yes the streets are

littered with cigarette butts
and darks things happen in alley-ways

and there is death even
in paradise

Grant Duncan 26.07.10