Colin Herd

my biceps (go easy please) & good, bad and middling


my biceps (go easy please)

taking me to a room full of pomegranates you squeeze
my biceps (go easy please) and say "modern poetry is
poetry which is already separate from story..." (i hear you,
love the soft luxurious carpet and i will never tire of looking at
Tretchikoff prints either, so i am appreciative of the way
you have lined this long corridor with them) "... this feeling-
tone inheres in all experience... the cry has a subjective side,
all feel terrified at the cry" (yes i do hear something down there,
like many many people of all ages and sizes and strengths
jumping on hundreds and thousands and millions of fruit... i
guessed correctly? seriously? do i get to join them? what fruit is
it, oh yes, pomegranates i forgot, i love pomegranates, can i
go down these stairs?) "... no.



good, bad and middling

good, bad and middling are the colours
of my usual anxiety and strange actions,
so when i am not really drifting in a fog,
(most of my time i'm putting my sea legs
to use) i scream out/cry out/tortuously
totter out that "i am lost in this mist, god
help my puny hairless soul". the upshot, pow,
is that i suck. i take it too seriously, too sorely,
too underhandedly, too unwieldily. just leave.