Peter Day


Pictures of My Father



House 3

AT THE VERY EDGE OF THIS HOUSE,
at its extent
the entrance and exit are two great doors,

vast slabs of darkness,
crushing the air and light.
Time is amputated under the mufflers-weight

of their bone breaking silence.
It crescendos this silence, is discharged
at high velocity

towards the stars, a black hole
near the end of indeterminable light,
this joint twilight and dusk

mutates and emanates to part day and part night.
Here the transitory
is balanced

in the dust suspended air.
I stand at this quiet intersection,
and here I found him,



Nobody knew HE WAS THERE.
A life beginning,
begin at the beginning son

without noise
memory or meaning.

We were just-hecklers, outsiders, spectators,
Caterwaulers and harrumphers‚

Men are nothing and can be saved’,
are these great f ibbers
mumblers
are they saviours of men?

I have found him
amongst nothing, for here is nothing.


Here the lost utter their last great gargler:
pile upon pile, body on body,
slumming with the lost last souls of night

rutting into narcissistic existence
I exists in each vapid second expired,
by each seconds loud dull crescendo,

Hoots emitted here and there,
squawks and shrieks form
in this psychedelic nothing

it‘s a cacophonous jumble,
which we tidied
rather occasionally, into

the framed odds and sods
of an hour,
for the guest‘s entertainment.



We lived but not very often, not very often
An occasional metre, life‘s measure and memory,
as we had no time for looking back

onto what exactly?
Why remember a moments passing?
Like we have had all time (to stand still).

It is the forgetting,
which is the longer, takes longer:
But your smell is perspired here still,

and you are secreted here, erotically
It haunts me; you haunt me,
seeping into every dormant spore,

tongued and grooved
into every crevice and joint.
Cleaved

between the skirting board, underlay
and tongued
into this very conversation.



In each silent beginning
screams the beat of the f inal hours end,
drum roll, loud ululation,

inexplicable and deafening
the silent baffles of time



In Gods good time our atheism retreats