Helicon March 2002: Issue 2

Contents

Taking a break from the Lada

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Kawaisoo* A forgotten photograph slipping from between its leaves: Annie Proulx's Close Range matchbooks advertising all those distant bars and cafes where we used to drink dust gathering overnight sunlight highlighting spoils and damage, more lost wars: your Peruvian blanket, Hellie's 'Carnival' painting, two stray champagne corks silence weighing heavy now: an empty bedroom taht old blue shirt, still crumpled; the pity of things (*A Japanese term which, roughly translated, means 'the pity of things').

Morning Stroll

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Green The wanderer found he wanted air – To escape the city and the towering towers; He believed colours were fresher away from there, Recalled the sacred odour of the Hovis ads And cried aloud “Oh Nature! Battery-chicken-powered.” He forgot that the perfect green Is only seen from far-off windows; Forgot too that the painter’s land, The clarity of cloudless sky, Is merely mythic. Under his breath He whispered incantations to the childhood gods, To show him truth: “Ronald McDonald had a farm…” “They’re burning the bodies in the second field,” Said the yokel with the disinfectant. “How fast d’you want your food? Every ten seconds – count ‘em – of an eight-hour shift A cow’s throat’s cut, and chemicals Are used to make the smell of grilling meat. The stenches are all masked by sterile steel.” The rambler stumbled away, retching, From this scion of the Countryside Alliance, Remembering how they foot-marched, mouthily, through London, While he muttered “we don’t want your sort ‘ere – Local demands for local demos, please.” He was out of his marked territory. Age-old acts hedgerowed him in; His ‘right to roam’ was tied in yellow tape. He saw Eden up close: blood, soil, and shit, Barred by the archangel MAFF, Who held a flaming policy. The wanderer retreated home, Went back to his own concrete world - Closed his eyes, and in his mind, Sang ululations for the scenic past: Ee I Ee I O

Reflection

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Poem about bulbs he presses his fingers in the crumbly damp black where the slick pale points of her insecurities show through green tipped unpractised though his thumbs are he knows how deep they go inside and imagines with riveting empathy purple flakiness on otherwise moist sides and he feels himself in her waters her pain and waits for it to grow

Pink Hyacinths

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A Plea

DAILY bread upon the table,
His body on the floor.
Silence those terrible engines:
Rather nothing anymore.

The Black Rock

I grew weary of the sea:
Each day, like a great wave suspended,
I pushed back its tireless advance:
A motionless guard poised in shadows.

Till weary, in shards against sky,
I cast my dark upon the blue;
Winter swelled the water, till it
Swallowed me and bit my cherished land.

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Sequoia (Triptych)

This epic redwood finger speaks of the sky, gesturing flaccidly with lank boughs.
The earth attends, awed – from rocks and grass, expressions, a litany of intercessions
addressed to the clouds. But Sequoia is umber and sombre; rood wood.

A man sits in the clearing,
among his own Cherokee literations.

This general shaman tells heavens to the earth, his red wood pricking the elements;
in his girth, in his height, in his signed barks, in the light that sparks on his moss-lined trunk,
in his xylems and fluid phloetry, in ants patterning him, in the galed twittering of branches,
most of all in pulp, paper – read wood – this tree whispers encoded heavens to the earth.

Titicaca I lie Pressed between the clouds. Beached, gasping, Far from where I used to swim. Grains of oxygen stumble through my blood And I am suspended, poised Where Middle Earth wears thin.

Ruin

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Autumn 2001

The privatised rail network desperately tried to top itself, seeking the nirvana of de de facto public control.

The Russian president had a sleepover in the American president's Texas home.

John Simpson liberated Kabul.

The Western world had the novel idea of attempting to eradicate all evil.

I had breakfast in McDonalds.

The Conservatives moved to the right.

Labour became more pragmatic.

A girl in Germany was found to possess a tongue almost one inch in excess of the average.

Some countries decided to try selling pollution to one another.

Some countries asked if they could buy pollution with trees.

I drank fair trade coffee.

Nobody knew how to pronounce 'Taliban'.

The clocks changed.

Michael Jackson spent thirty million dollars on a new pop music album and someone I know gave at least thirty new pence to a homeless woman. Nobody felt any better.

President Bush spoke a lot of sense.

Stephen Hawking stated that mankind's only hope was to abandon planet earth.

At the end of every day, someone had to prepare dinner.

Douglas Adams followed God.

Some people killed and burned cows. Some people gave other people Anthrax.

Cloning was seen as highly suspicious. Suspicion multiplied, unabated.

Coca-cola claimed to share 'core values' with Harry Potter.

I lost all my core values, and am considering a claim against Coca-cola.

I had lunch in Pret a Manger.

McDonalds ate Pret a Manger for breakfast.

The year continued to do its best to prove that truth is not only stranger than fiction, but than Kubrick himself.

Art got sick of imitating nature. Nature was glad to be able to nurse its shame in private.

I elevated my sickness to an art form. They said that for a young person this was only natural.

The English beat the Germans at football, but the Germans have the girl with a three inch tongue.

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Anthrax My mother now wears a balaclava to open her post. I know, I know, but it makes her feel better. She put clingfilm over her mouth too, until she started feeling faint. Oh yes, and the sheep- skin gloves, which aren't to keep her fingers warm. The worst thing you used to find inside an envelope was a chain letter. Everyday is a birthday. X died fity-eight years ago; the Y war ended this day last century; it's Revive-Your-Chintz Week; pop a cork for the anniversary of the M4 bus lane. A spiral of events swarming like brambles over the days, the months. Are they trying to fill up the calendar so there isn't any room left for wars and massacres? Soon we'll be timeless, just a slow swivel on a vinyl floor with the disco lights peppering our faces like anthrax.

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The Dating Game

The pink or the red, bag over the head?
My laugh-lines are showing at twenty.
These lovely red lips will be gone with two sips
which will not be the right incentive.

And what about shoes: high-heels, or mules;
safe, or comfy or smart?
I’ll be in the gutter if I have to totter,
and I don’t want to look like a tart.

He’s here! Is he here? Girls please don’t stare.
Jacket and tie or shirt-sleeves?
I’ve got the frighteners, degrees of politeness,
And oh – look – a kiss on both cheeks!

I’m being whisked away to a frisky café
in the fashionable part of town.
He’s opening doors: a gent, or a bore?
And my stockings are falling down…

Now candlesticking, and fingers are twitching,
is that half a bottle I’ve drunk?
He’s terribly charming, and was that a ‘darling’?
More pouting in order, I thunk!

Our fingers – they touched, for a moment too much,
and under the table we go-o-oh!
Oh how perfectly sweet to hold hands underneath,
as if someone was watching, you know.

At the end of the meal he settles the bill –
just as I’m used to, of course,
and then there’s the kiss, a tickle of lips
as we stand in the restaurant porch.

The journey goes fast, my head coming last,
I’m a whirlwind of make-up and wine
a tap on the cheek, and I’m back on my feet,
telling jokes, but without the punch-line…

The date is quite cracking, he comes in for coffee,
(apparently only for me).
He leaves in the night in anonymous flight
my phone-number left by the tea.

He never did call, and I cried not at all,
well a bit, but I’m hardened, and so
I’ve another tonight, and I’ve heard he’s quite nice,
he’s a friend of the last one, you know.

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Where I have not been He heard me crying in the orbed porcelain-pricked-out dark, the tea set gleaming quiet in the night, and he came to my door to softly knock. Damp noise. We later talked, my rubbed powered eyes not looking at him; the folds of my dress velveting my sides and my dust touched iridescent hands. Flustered at the bright lit hall way like a clumsy moth battering its own wings with no cessation. I do not stop. He grabs me, holds. With his hands there I am quiet. He cups my wings while they dry the I glide away in a slow float flight onto the crooked cut of steps hazy with earlying grey back to the grainy vision, pillow linen less wet As he stands he opens his hands to blow the moth wing dust in small dry scales from his skin

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View from the Governor's Office Cape-coast Castle, Ghana

Cold Greeting And the aliens contacted the earth after a lifetime of waiting They asked for help- the earth replied not and down they came, and laid their feet upon the cold earth and saw a host of phantoms which now bore crowns, glinting in the bare sun which dwindled, then went black Weathered

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Tube To work clack clack look back to where the eyes just moved from; the gaze gaze gaze averted. News left unread, eyes left unfocused. Who would have noticed, the fat pinstripe motif of capital dejection leadership election and all the damp armpits of an eight thirty orgy. Gold gold gold watches and frankincense and tanks move into Bethlehem because we're coming to get you Bin London London London on the clickety clickety clickety clack Tube. Stare at his back as you sway with the track; foot forward, foot back, you soon get the knack and you don't believe in anything but freedom freedom freedom and all your opinions you read 'em read 'em read 'em in a broadsheet. Going home clack clack look back to where the day is done the war is won and Tony's here and Tony's there but your place is to stand and stare at freedom freedom freedom.

Peace Wall, Ecole Militaire, Paris, 12/09/01

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Metro Tired, I am on my way to drink wine. Santiago - today the Andes are obscured by smog, Though the light is still Aegean and the people proud. A woman sits opposite me with dyed, bushed hair. She wears a young, open smile on painted lips, And the perfume my mother wears to theatres. For a moment, I am caught in metro-time As another train passes in a blur. We cease to exist - a blur ourselves In a pocket of dark and noise and smell. We emerge imperceptibly changed. Marked or not, that moment of non-existence Existed. Later, I catch the plane home.

Peace Wall, Ecole Militaire, Paris, 12/09/01

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Schism He slept with me. No sex only he wanted not to be alone and he wanted to be with someone he loved he said As friends He held me like sand in his fist. The Coquettish Talking in bed, 1,000 miles from you The phone doesn't ring. A mosquito bites my thingh, But no blood is shed

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A Night Passing Wolves and gothic moons surround an eager, feverish mind tonight, Selfishly engaged in one's own life, I find the world incomprehensible, A sound arrives, I start and shake, awake for the first time, it seems... I long for the sanctity of first snow falling, in love with life itself.

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Fife, September 2001.

In each Stieglitz still
the sky is recast, rediscovered
in its shade and perspective.

So it is with triturations of language.
Here, on the coast, late summer, midnight,
a carpet of black ferns and fallacies.
The moon pales the armozeen
and makes the dreary sand
a riot of new-wave monochrome.

One day, that salient rib will rip your chest apart.
Your girlfriend, I snared her fingers over it (you snored)
she stared at me through the small hours,
passive, searching.

We descend to the edge, smelling salt and salmon. The sea
is only a gap after the rocks. Then there is no sea.

She causes impulse
in every part of me. All of Scotland
waits for her. Her black mantles
are superable only
by the ruffle
of her shot silks, velvets,
satins, unconscionable heart.

Yes I would have done it, right there Mark, hands upon you,
right then, if only she'd skipped off around the cliff for a brief moment.

Spark And they're off - Anger-matic on automatic, new technology for this brave new century. Powering up with a slow build whine, recalling the wail sirens lang syne. Whirs once; we wait: we sepculate - bangs or whimpers? Trigger fingers: where's the target, who's to hate? You know you wan5t to detonate, spread the spores of running sores. Jail for jokes! They're nearly sure, and nothing's funny anymore, just fervent fear and righteous rage and mapless minds have won the day. I want the noise to go but there;s the spark and gas abounds and the explosion sudden sounds. And still. Ignore. The thing's a bore. And life'll turn while hard words burn and fade into the deep. Beep! Switch to 'silent running.' Set it back to 'on the brink.' Honk-if-you-think-it's-the-end-of-the-world

Last breath

Marlboro Lights

the first drag of that last cigarette you’ve been saving
will never be quite sublime –

falling in love is the rush and the craving
both at the same time

*

have you got a spare fag
I could borrow? Tomorrow, your smoker’s
cough. Sunrise. Pale dawn light, through a soft-focus
filter of silk-cut fog

*

through clouds of Smirnoff ice | bright stars
make-up | glitter | Marlboro Lights
constellations | in the glass
of windows | mirrors | Friday nights
faces | soft moons | ringed with smoke
eyes | skies | Malibu and coke

*

my ashtray is getting full. Dog-ends; stale, grey regret,
and wasted tobacco. After smoking that much, I still can’t forget
you, in a restaurant, lighting the candle with your cigarette ?

the candle’s almost-foxtrot glow
goes dancing with the wick ?
they glitter, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow,
only ? without the quick ?

*

if you’re not careful, a heart can fall
apart inside its own pocket;

a cigarette-
break

*

smoking is ok, but writing
gives a different kind of rush –
one drag of daydreams seems to hush
the noise of heartbreaks; all the clamour
of coughs and phlegm (the dirty glamour
of satin breaths beneath a sheen
of moonlight, laced with nicotine
and lemon-drops of serotonin)

*

I had been listening to Billie Holiday’s Lady in Satin for the best
part of a week ? so I smoke
a little too much, and I joke
a little too much, and the tunes I request
are not always the best

*

smoking kills, says one bruised side
of the nearly-empty packet

something else just whispers, fuck it;
enjoy your soft, slow suicide

*

last year, at night, I used to go and smoke
out of an upstairs window; light spring rain
and ashfall to the street below. Across
the road, a streetlamp always seemed to shine;
till some odd evening, when its quiet glow
would light some fuzzy, nicotine-stained hope
inside my head – that every cigarette
could be a few sweet minutes closer to
God –
The only sound was burning paper.
I think I was in love.
But love is so
much glitter; sparks from white-hot chemicals;
that bright idea, that does its soft cartwheels
across the brain and soon, how soon, forgets –
like cigarettes – its little miracles

Poisoning

I get through the crack
pick my way through limbs and squat
next to the cistern
I put the glass on the tiles
and announce its presence
loudly to the assembled company
she is bunched over and her voice is shrunk

He sits on the edge
of the bath in his satin dress with
spread legs and hanging bottom lip gazing
at her heaving dryly like she’s a Rothko
she can’t be sick
and pushes away the hand he
offers to stick down her throat

14th February Tear the sheet off the calendar, unwrap The bouquets, send the red, red roses back, Binge on the liqueurs and give a sharp slap To every lover on the beaten track. I don't need dates any more; I've grown out Of time, heartbeats, the brush of fingertips On soft skin: things my life will thrive without. And yet- when the dreamhush descends my lips Recreate him, he's here, struggling to keep His eyes blinking back the dark simply so He can see the moment I fall asleep, Like someone I read about long ago When days were pages. The nights are so long Now, and Valentine's Day seems all wrong.

Roses

Chicken Pie

It was a grim kind of morning. Fresh but grim, the kind of day when a man
in a trench coat could blend in to the sidewalk like a dog in a ditch. How very
appropriate then that today was the second Tuesday of the month, and the boss
would be calling. Not Tony’s boss you understand, although in a way he was, in
a way he was everyone’s. He always came, second and fourth Tuesdays of the month,
about three in the afternoon, regular as routine. The boss liked routine; so did
Tony, who was happy to stick with it. Which was lucky. The boss hated interruptions
to routine. Tony didn’t mind the routine. He even kind of admired it. Hell, how
many sons visited their ma twice a month and went to the butchers for them? The
boss sent people to the grocers, but always came personally to Tony’s butchery.
Tony was quite pleased with the attention actually. Kind of flattered. He might
have felt insulted that the boss came round to check his ma wasn’t being swindled,
not that feeling insulted would have been sensible mind you, but Tony was flattered.
It pleased him to see a son taking such an interest in his ma. And hell, he was
quite fond of the old lady. She was always so polite, inquiring after his son’s
little league games. It wouldn’t have mattered if the boss hadn’t been her son, Tony
would still save her the best cuts. Tony had tried her pies and knew his meat was
going to a good home worthy of it; pastry so crisp you’d think it had been ironed.
Mind you all of Tony’s cuts were the best cuts. He’d rather throw meat to his dog than
serve a tough steak. He had his reputation to think of. The boss respected Tony’s
reputation, and Tony was flattered by that. Hell, the guy was a decent sort, looking
after his ma and all. Sure you didn’t always hear the nicest things about him but some
people talk too much, about things they knew nothing about. Besides the association was
just with his mother. Tony had no other ties to the boss. Sure he admired the way the
guy looked after his ma, but he weren’t stupid. He liked the odd glass of wine, or maybe
a touch of grappa, and he always got these from sources the boss would approve of. Like
I said, he wasn’t stupid. But apart from the odd bit of bootleg, Tony had no vices,
nothing to tie him down. He was on the level. Nothing to worry about he thought, as
he went back to sweeping the doorstep.

“Eh, Tony!” said the fat man as he swept in through the door. “How you doing? How’s
the family?”
Three o’clock already thought Tony as he replied “Just fine Sir, just fine. How’s business?”
“Don’t ask, Tony, don’t ask.” Came the now canonical response.
“Why don’t you invite your friends in, its a hell of a day? I’ll get the wife to put the
kettle on.” Said Tony gesturing to the two looming figures with identical broken noses
flanking the front door, while making to call back into the house.
“Don’t trouble the good lady. They like it outside: never did house train them!” said the
man in a low chuckle. Another routine exchange.
“As you wish sir. I’ve got your mother’s order here; I trust she’s well?”
“Looking younger everytime I see her. Either I’m getting a hell of a lot older faster or
there’s something special in your meat, Tony!” said the man laughing “Now let me settle her
account. How much?”
“Let’s see; $35. 42cents, sir.”
“That’s three cents more than last time Tony! What you doing; tipping the scales?” the man’s
voice went up a decibel.
“Well sir, your mother had some friends round....” said Tony quickly, starting to explain.
“Tony, Tony, I’m only teasing! I know you’d never swindle my ma! She thinks highly of you y’know!"
handing over the exact money and picking up her parcel.
“Why thank you sir. And give my best wishes to your dear mother.”
“I will Tony” said the man as he made to leave. “Say is that you son” he said as he suddenly
stopped and pointed at a photo behind Tony.
“Yeah, that’s my Benito,” said Tony in a flush of fear. “He’d just hit his tenth home run of
the season,” pride slowly replacing fear.
“Is that a fact? My ma’s been telling me what a good kid you got there. I admire that, I do,
I like a man that can raise their kids proper.”
“I try my best, sir”
“I’m sure you do Tony, I’m sure you do.” Said the man. There was a brief pause, then the man
continued. “Yeah, I like that. In fact, maybe you could help me, Tony.”
“Anything I can do, sir.” Said Tony, not really meaning it. He was getting a bit nervous; this
visit had gone on longer than usual.
“I was doing some business in... hell, you don’t want to know do you? But, to cut to the point,
as a sweetener, this guy threw in a consignment of meat. Mostly beef, I think, er... some lamb,
and some chicken. Now I don’t know anything about meat. Hell, there are lots of pies, and I only
got ten fingers, right?” he laughed “So I was thinking of a quick sale.”
“Well I got my regular suppliers, I don’t want to upset nobody.”
“If its just a one-off, nobody’s gonna mind are they? Believe me Tony it is just a one-off, so
you need’t worry. I can tell what you thinking, but my ma likes you Tony, hell I like you. If I
wanted your business...., well, let’s just say I wouldn’t bother messing about with suppliers
would I?”
“Sir, that’s not what I meant....”
“Good, well, I’ll have some of my boys drop it round on Thursday. Don’t worry about price Tony;
see how it sells, and we’ll talk in a couple of weeks. I just want rid of it really, I ain’t
looking to retire on it or nothing!” he laughed.
“Well er...”
“Don’t worry yourself Tony, just look after my ma! Ciao!” he called as he left the shop.

This sure as hell wasn’t beef. In fact, Tony knew exactly what it was. When Tony’s family had
moved up to the lakes thirty years ago from New York, they’d been pretty poor and had to eat
whatever they could get. This meat was so lean and fast it would hit the plate running; either
he cattle this came from had been used for racing trains, or this was horse. The lamb, he
didn’t want to contemplate. Tony had seen some tough sheep in his time, but this took the
biscuit, and broke it in half. Tony was no two-bit operator, hell he was the best butcher
for at least forty blocks, if not this far east. But any bozo fresh of the boat that had ever
wielded a cleaver could tell this wasn’t lamb. The sinews were all wrong and the meat was too
stringy, and had a faint reek of garbage. In Tony’s professional opinion, which was considerable,
he had here a consignment of stray.The chicken was a different matter. Sometimes with lamb,
when they had been hand reared and treated like pets, you got the same thing. The meat would
be real tender, pampered even. But this; someone had really cared for this flesh. It was so
tender, but no strength in it at all; couldn’t have won a tug-of-war with a goldfish. He didn’t
know how many birds were here, two dozen maybe, cos they’d all been sliced up and deboned,
which was odd enough in itself. No abattoirs round here would do that. Plus it was fat, like
#fatter that prize winning pork. Hell, this was some pampered poultry, damn sure. But on top
of all this the meat itself was just wrong. Meat, except organs like kidneys and liver, is
all muscle, which is itself very fibrous. The fibers on these birds were running together in
such a way that they couldn’t possibly have joined at a tendon unless the chickens had been
huge. Maybe its swan or something, thought Tony, Hell, no these birds would have to be bigger
than that, they have to be, well,.....

That’ll be that chicken, thought Tony.

Docked

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When they were very young

Whenever I walk down a London street
I'm ever so careful to watch my feet,
For you never quite know who lurks down below
In the gutters and cellars, the smog and the heat.

Each window's covered over by a great big curtain
Where ladies' fickle tickling rattles on the pane.
You can buy a ticket for a little bit of butter
But you'd better not forget it or you won't come out again.

If the pressure of rush hour proves to be too great,
Cash in your breath of fresh air owed you by the state:
Go watch them changing wives at Buckingham Palace,
Though the royal slice of bread soon turns stale, mate.

The city is gritty, each parent repines,
And even the bears won't set foot on the lines.
There's no question of letting your kid out at night
Without fretting he'll get in all covered in signs

Of the spray and decay of this child century.
There's a red sky each morning that's warming the sea,
And not even James James Morrison Morrison
Will go down to the end of the town for free.

At My Grandad's House

Crashing through the hall we came
My cousins and I playing our game
Of Tough Cowboys; the three of us
Fought and shot and rode
On our trusty horses, galloping
With all our might
"Bang! I got you! Ha, you're dead!"
"No, you missed!" and up the stairs
We chased, brandising violence
In plastic guns and knives and fists.

The we burst, exulting, into Grandad's room,
Rushing to a stop as we saw the old man there,
Sitting sobbing in achair.
Alone, just there.
He wept onto an old brown photograph
It was my grandmother, youthful in an ancient frame.
Our warcries dissolved, our horses shied away,
The wounds of rubber bullets stung, and we stood there,
We experts a Tough Killing Cowboys,
Now stunned by real morality

And frailty: my Grandad shok and wavered
Stroking his thumb on the glass.
The eldest of us (a Sheriff) braved sensitivity
And went forward to comfort.
But the two of us left behind,
We did not understand the secret ectasy of sadness
We retreated, cautiously holstering, until on safe ground
Pretending to have downed the Sheriff in the fight: "He couldn't hack the heat with us Cowboys."

From C to K A change of name, attempt to erase My Past. that is what you have done. For if I cannot write as I knew What then is left of me? And new languages are not learnt In a day. Can you cut my tongue And suture in a new one? Then will I Talk as you want me to, Or, better, will I then Revert to Original dumbness? Rudderless. Watertight. Cursed.

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Bikini Beautiful

sing, cuccu, nu

I sing because I am a singer. But I use you in all this because I need ears.

1

Quince;
white coincidence
of man upon woman.

Here, veils; there, vows and vowels. Cue-owls.

Against the muffled jubilations I reveal
in myself such eloquence that she reviles
with one kiss all that does not bear my imprint.

Fragments of wax flowers are confettied upon us,
and from the revelry blossoms reverent silence, reverie.

2

When at last she talks, her words are like prayer-beads,
gently revolving and resolving, or else like taws,
or white bells appealing without cause.

When at last I talk, cocooned,
all semblance of sense has been lost.

3

Yes in shreds it goes, curtain and counterpane,
in shards come chandelier and she, in white delirium,
and her buds of invention are, her alabaster chambers are:

o yes, how I've waited for it

she coos and my triumph is faintly crimson and she puts in her mouth

4

Can I become incarnate in this?
Communition, comminution.
Is there abandonment within me?

For I have clambered aleatoric dunes,
in search of the runes of the music of the earth;
I found nothing but broken Lombard cycles,
and a birth of noise frothing from the ruins.

Come in, at least, from the window,
come in through the door, I miss you.

Now with her white nails the sea has settled,
in her mouth she puts our white sails as one, together.

5

The sun pauses at the edge.
Sing, cuccu sing, cuccu, nu.

O bird
if I hear you again
I shall be filled up of you.

In these pale wheatfields
by the peals of white bells
like white pearls
cowled
in cloud
shall I again
be replenished.

Is she rising or setting?
Sing, cuccu – sing, cuccu, nu,
o that wele is comen to welaway.

11-words, 7-lines. It's my birthday. The white powder in front of me looks like anthrax. As the vinyl spins its timeless spiral Pink fingers pop a chain of corks. I pick my way through the bramble crowds, The swivelling hips; And I'm gone. Untilted

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