Pete Spence
Falling. For Tom Weigel.
falling
something is coming towards you
it may be solid
or a forgotten idea of your past
even if its narrative had dropped off some time ago
shattering on a pavement happening nearby
a loose end of a civilisation
that seems bent on escaping us
protruding like the skin of a dream
into every thought
untouchable and fragrant
the weighted flavour of air
fermentations bubble towards you
the final hard sell
then suddenly the ground elopes with you
Radio.
somewhere nearby someone has a radio on
playing the latest static the buzz
of an insect closing in is a little more tuneful
and the sky is agreeable flaunting
the pandemonium between a few eager clouds
some fresh sounds lean precariously in the distance
planning their entrance carefully
trees weave in and out of the view amused
by the pattern of imported shadows
taking up vacancies in the scattered foreground
is the air cleaner for the scraping sounds
of the radio? i think not but can anyone be sure
or be certain of the the muffled sounds of the day
as they stumble about at a tepid tempo
knocking over the gathering eventualities
here one minute going the next
leaving the strings of residue to their fate
a little like yesterday's dishwater but without
the bubbles hung out to dry as the radio taunts
eagerly from between the desiccated clouds
Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, editor, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit.
He is currently retired from work but not from any of the above.
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Falling. For Tom Weigel.
falling
something is coming towards you
it may be solid
or a forgotten idea of your past
even if its narrative had dropped off some time ago
shattering on a pavement happening nearby
a loose end of a civilisation
that seems bent on escaping us
protruding like the skin of a dream
into every thought
untouchable and fragrant
the weighted flavour of air
fermentations bubble towards you
the final hard sell
then suddenly the ground elopes with you
Radio.
somewhere nearby someone has a radio on
playing the latest static the buzz
of an insect closing in is a little more tuneful
and the sky is agreeable flaunting
the pandemonium between a few eager clouds
some fresh sounds lean precariously in the distance
planning their entrance carefully
trees weave in and out of the view amused
by the pattern of imported shadows
taking up vacancies in the scattered foreground
is the air cleaner for the scraping sounds
of the radio? i think not but can anyone be sure
or be certain of the the muffled sounds of the day
as they stumble about at a tepid tempo
knocking over the gathering eventualities
here one minute going the next
leaving the strings of residue to their fate
a little like yesterday's dishwater but without
the bubbles hung out to dry as the radio taunts
eagerly from between the desiccated clouds
Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, editor, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit.
He is currently retired from work but not from any of the above.