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    Edward Pickersgill Edward Pickersgill

Print Version

ID: 5282
Date Added: 2002-10-19
Date Modified: 2002-11-19
(h) Untimely Ripped ? average | Votes: 0
from Binding Twine by Penn Kemp (1984) 
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Face to face the void.
Avoid the facade.

I can't stand. It.
Not yet. Where there's
a will. A way. Away.

Am I willing to have this mean
what it means to you out there
reading? What is in. Is all.

The rage. Tend. Tender.
Enrage. Outrage. Wrath.
Wrong. Wrap. Wild. While.
Wile. Kill. Kill flies.
Time flies. Kill time.
Watch. End the night. Wait.

Weight. Whine. Want. Out.
Better me out. Butter me up.
Out is not in. What is in is
all the rage. What does it serve?


I would like to sleep for weeks.
I can't sleep a night through
since they left. What more,
what else might be taken?

After the earthquake, the fire
the revolution, the treefall, I
slept as sound as the children
sleep now. Sleep now. Has been
taken too.

Making up for all past blindness,
eyelids, violet eyelids will not
close. Limbs akimbo stiffen.

How to sleep. How to wake UP.
I need to see, I need to sleep.

Happening. What was (is), I
did not escape the shock.

Pain, pain, go away. Come again
some other way.
Not this. Not this. Weary.
Wary. Worry. War. Were. Worn.


Pass this way again.
Not likely. Age
and the times do
not bear children.

But witness.

Passing fancies.
Over lightly.
Once. Upon.
Court. Hearing.

Passage, rights of.
Passage, nights of.
Heard. Said.

A time. Bear in mind.
To come to my truth
will I reach yours?
Here. Hear. It is.


For most it is gradual.
For some it is not.
How do I act with out?

Without that awake I
drift. Unmoored. Not
yet unmasked. But

unasked, the barrage
of questions I need
no longer attend.

Unanswered. Space
surrounds. The ghosts.

Who am I then with/
out them. Who. When.


All along something, sometimes
in the chaos of diapers or box
lunches, wanted now. Now that
same restless It wants back.

It clings to my self-image.
It clings to my attachment.
It clings to my position as
righteously it feeds off lies
and deception, discontent.

It forgets the lovely irony:
Yes, you can have everything
you need. But not necessarily
at the same time. Nor when
you decide you want it.


I wondered what it was like.
I'd never lived by myself.
I'd never slept in a house
alone. Instead I'd slipped
from family into marriage
the day after graduation.

I thought I was independent.


Because of the atom bomb
I figured at twelve that
only thought might last:
the transfer of a mind
onto the page. Shadows
on Hiroshima walls.

I had children, thinking
ten years of life better
than not knowing at all.
But that was the most I
could conceive for them.

Ironic how our pledges
turn to haunt us, living
out their own reality.
Each child taken by ten.
The work remains: turning
the page. Such subtle twists.


Words on a page
you are not likely to see.

I don't know why I should feel
guilty. I feel guilty.

Free to do as I like like this.

I didn't expect it to be this
hard, now that I am free,
only to be free.


Who has been towing
whom? I thought I
was your source. But
you were also mine.

I no longer tell tales
at bedtime.

On the street, I am no
longer safe.


Children, you no longer hear me.
Children, you no longer see me.

I am a voice without a tongue.
A talking head with no eye.
A phone that rings no answer.

No answers.

Children, you no longer know me.
I no longer know you.
Children, you no longer need me.
I need you.

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