As soon
as I decide to blog
but as yet without
a chosen flog
the word “spark”
unplanned, unsought,
and as yet unfiltered,
parks itself point blank,
behind/in front of
the dark third eye;
the outer eye premature, stressed,
worried as a hemp-rough bell-rope
fingered, palmed, dangled, waiting,
waiting taut to be pulled sore
at the front of the cue,
at the front for the cure:
where the lure of live art
queues up like a ritual
Guy Fawkes Five
or a banner spangled Four.
Like any old flash
all steeple tense,
all tower taut,
all seriously trigger-happy,
the bell-ringer’s incendiary fingers
ring out, tell out,
draw,
paint out
the negative charge,
the positive hots,
the hot spots and the cold spots
of yesterday’s within.
fillière 