Chain reaction
CHAIN REACTION
1
...the half-life on the stern roofs where I wield the wires of conduction,
bait the prodding aerials,
angle the hungry empty dishes, in short, install and verify that
what is up
is adequate and just and feeds down there what happens up here,
this domain of
tiles and slate and air, laid flat or gamely pitched, the necessary result of
every building,
has a certain privacy, an exclusiveness which is not unpleasant, in spite
of the height,
though inconvenience can rage when I forget to bring a tool, along, or leave
a crucial piece
of hardware in the business van down there, and it occurs that there’s
no surface or
alternative to slope, nothing suitable for the most menial or terrestrial
of acts, and
it's sometimes therefore quite essential to descend, when waylaid by
mounting need,
and there is no other course of action, no elevated alternative for fence
or tree or water-closet,
when the urgent urge to relieve my bladder commands a flagrant change
of events.
2
...with professional regret and by way of airy ladder I abandon my sky
cyber-commision
to regain the intimate rear of the client enterprise, where gay ambiguous waste awaits decision,
discarded files and bedlam, boxed between out-dated furnishings and
projects in decomposition,
hemmed by fence, textured by weeds, a calm resort for snails and rain,
a waiting-room
where no-one comes and no-one goes, for me, despite the sky, a nearly
perfect privy,
though not without a certain bother, given the uncertain circumstance
of unseen prying eyes,
yet nevertheless the need is great and so, between the weathered remains
of paper plates
and tubular threat of tumbled chairs, I aim against a cardboard gap,
compressed in folds
to block a hole, beneath the gasping wizen planks, a row of cunning knots
and slits neglected
in their noble task and split against the lurking of the careless stuff,
a stubborn occupation
of the bigger world beyond, which I be-spied while passing hard the coil
of morning tea.
3
...aligned to left, the broken view of garages, arriving right, of ancient use,
a lay path leads
invisibly, across a concrete no-man's-land to after join a thoroughfare,
I witness with
my weaving head, assembling stuttered glimpses, patching slots to form
an idle whole, relaxing
as the strain abates, draining close to working boots, awaiting some slight
slice of life
to flicker through to find my eyes, accessible to sequel and distraction
now the bladder's
shrunk, routine sprinkle, penis almost tucked away when strutting fellow
breaks the absence,
juts from where the garage cuts, proceeds across my scattered vision,
aiming for an exit right
but pausing, as I draw the zipper, prepares to step politely aside, the yield
obliged by yet another,
this, a woman, nearly missed behind the boarding, briefly, bag on shoulder,
precise upon her
chosen route, head uplifted, smiling slightly, acknowledges the path left open
turns and gestures,
this I see, a small exchange of courtesy, a flourish, deft, the man receives,
and gasps upon the knife.
4
...occurrences do not repeat, I dodge the slots to piece the scene, the woman
parting to the left,
the staggered man stares all around and crumples moaning to the ground,
then all is silent,
as before, my urine patient at my feet, the tools still resting on the roof,
the victim sprawled
beyond the palisade and me, a move to make, I must decide to validate
this homicide or
fake an unawareness founded in my inured duties, 'cos 'struth, a thought,
my piss could damp `
my innocence, identify my whereabouts and even link me to the crime,
for wrong there was,
a wanton act I needs accept, no doubt, regardless of restricted sight,
I saw the bitch,
she cut him down, hell, poor sod, he may be still alive, yet here I dither,
blank, as if
these buckled fencing timbers in some way offered truth a choice, to reject
a seamless trail
of crass events, from sky-end roof to the flickered world beyond the wooden
fence, in return
to feed my memory with a feral grain of doubt, and avoid a unique version
of the coinciding past.
5
...the fence, two walls of brick, three brooding stories of the building’s
patient back,
a minute passed, less, I look, assess, assuage my faltered certitude by
documenting place, for
if everything's in order there's no need for me to stress, over there's the office
rear door over
there's the ladder up and meanwhile, here's a malfunctioned air conditioner, crated for disposal,
but at this instant serving as a first step over the corral, to the calm concrete,
uniformly spread,
easy for passage and executing manoeuvres, impassive to the close
examination
of a stabbed and bleeding prey, oddly heavy in dishevelment, his pulse
resists my search,
I am alone this bright mid-morning with a dead fact at my feet, wild ignorance
and itchy clots
of information too, something foremost to be testified, maybe fear, I cannot
move him, cannot
speak with those not there, and must not touch what buds as evidence,
nor can I leave
a note or raise a comfort, only trust what seems inane, and adopt the killer's
town-bound exit.
6
...which made me think first of the woman I'd seen wield a knife and then
of my bladder and
the urge to re-piss, expulse the threat of recollection, clear, neat, images,
framed and stuttered
between wooden shutters, but precise, the sequence replays, a man arrives
and then a woman,
he wore a coat, now furled across his strew of corpse and nibbling blood,
she also
swathes a coat it floats around her swirl to lunge, and strange, I see the knife
but not
her skirt or was it trousers, there again, it darts, her hand flares from the pocket
as she turns,
and slithers to a shaft, a blade, could be a spike, it disappears through cloth
and breath,
and all is still, he knows but does not understand his falling, stillness dulling
comprehension,
like him I stare, but cannot recognise a sense, and by the time he meets
the ground it is
too late to ask the woman's hand or face for clues for all has closed, the bars
of meaning
are too tight, my eyes are snared upon his fall, searching where the blood will seep, and she is gone.
1
...the half-life on the stern roofs where I wield the wires of conduction,
bait the prodding aerials,
angle the hungry empty dishes, in short, install and verify that
what is up
is adequate and just and feeds down there what happens up here,
this domain of
tiles and slate and air, laid flat or gamely pitched, the necessary result of
every building,
has a certain privacy, an exclusiveness which is not unpleasant, in spite
of the height,
though inconvenience can rage when I forget to bring a tool, along, or leave
a crucial piece
of hardware in the business van down there, and it occurs that there’s
no surface or
alternative to slope, nothing suitable for the most menial or terrestrial
of acts, and
it's sometimes therefore quite essential to descend, when waylaid by
mounting need,
and there is no other course of action, no elevated alternative for fence
or tree or water-closet,
when the urgent urge to relieve my bladder commands a flagrant change
of events.
2
...with professional regret and by way of airy ladder I abandon my sky
cyber-commision
to regain the intimate rear of the client enterprise, where gay ambiguous waste awaits decision,
discarded files and bedlam, boxed between out-dated furnishings and
projects in decomposition,
hemmed by fence, textured by weeds, a calm resort for snails and rain,
a waiting-room
where no-one comes and no-one goes, for me, despite the sky, a nearly
perfect privy,
though not without a certain bother, given the uncertain circumstance
of unseen prying eyes,
yet nevertheless the need is great and so, between the weathered remains
of paper plates
and tubular threat of tumbled chairs, I aim against a cardboard gap,
compressed in folds
to block a hole, beneath the gasping wizen planks, a row of cunning knots
and slits neglected
in their noble task and split against the lurking of the careless stuff,
a stubborn occupation
of the bigger world beyond, which I be-spied while passing hard the coil
of morning tea.
3
...aligned to left, the broken view of garages, arriving right, of ancient use,
a lay path leads
invisibly, across a concrete no-man's-land to after join a thoroughfare,
I witness with
my weaving head, assembling stuttered glimpses, patching slots to form
an idle whole, relaxing
as the strain abates, draining close to working boots, awaiting some slight
slice of life
to flicker through to find my eyes, accessible to sequel and distraction
now the bladder's
shrunk, routine sprinkle, penis almost tucked away when strutting fellow
breaks the absence,
juts from where the garage cuts, proceeds across my scattered vision,
aiming for an exit right
but pausing, as I draw the zipper, prepares to step politely aside, the yield
obliged by yet another,
this, a woman, nearly missed behind the boarding, briefly, bag on shoulder,
precise upon her
chosen route, head uplifted, smiling slightly, acknowledges the path left open
turns and gestures,
this I see, a small exchange of courtesy, a flourish, deft, the man receives,
and gasps upon the knife.
4
...occurrences do not repeat, I dodge the slots to piece the scene, the woman
parting to the left,
the staggered man stares all around and crumples moaning to the ground,
then all is silent,
as before, my urine patient at my feet, the tools still resting on the roof,
the victim sprawled
beyond the palisade and me, a move to make, I must decide to validate
this homicide or
fake an unawareness founded in my inured duties, 'cos 'struth, a thought,
my piss could damp `
my innocence, identify my whereabouts and even link me to the crime,
for wrong there was,
a wanton act I needs accept, no doubt, regardless of restricted sight,
I saw the bitch,
she cut him down, hell, poor sod, he may be still alive, yet here I dither,
blank, as if
these buckled fencing timbers in some way offered truth a choice, to reject
a seamless trail
of crass events, from sky-end roof to the flickered world beyond the wooden
fence, in return
to feed my memory with a feral grain of doubt, and avoid a unique version
of the coinciding past.
5
...the fence, two walls of brick, three brooding stories of the building’s
patient back,
a minute passed, less, I look, assess, assuage my faltered certitude by
documenting place, for
if everything's in order there's no need for me to stress, over there's the office
rear door over
there's the ladder up and meanwhile, here's a malfunctioned air conditioner, crated for disposal,
but at this instant serving as a first step over the corral, to the calm concrete,
uniformly spread,
easy for passage and executing manoeuvres, impassive to the close
examination
of a stabbed and bleeding prey, oddly heavy in dishevelment, his pulse
resists my search,
I am alone this bright mid-morning with a dead fact at my feet, wild ignorance
and itchy clots
of information too, something foremost to be testified, maybe fear, I cannot
move him, cannot
speak with those not there, and must not touch what buds as evidence,
nor can I leave
a note or raise a comfort, only trust what seems inane, and adopt the killer's
town-bound exit.
6
...which made me think first of the woman I'd seen wield a knife and then
of my bladder and
the urge to re-piss, expulse the threat of recollection, clear, neat, images,
framed and stuttered
between wooden shutters, but precise, the sequence replays, a man arrives
and then a woman,
he wore a coat, now furled across his strew of corpse and nibbling blood,
she also
swathes a coat it floats around her swirl to lunge, and strange, I see the knife
but not
her skirt or was it trousers, there again, it darts, her hand flares from the pocket
as she turns,
and slithers to a shaft, a blade, could be a spike, it disappears through cloth
and breath,
and all is still, he knows but does not understand his falling, stillness dulling
comprehension,
like him I stare, but cannot recognise a sense, and by the time he meets
the ground it is
too late to ask the woman's hand or face for clues for all has closed, the bars
of meaning
are too tight, my eyes are snared upon his fall, searching where the blood will seep, and she is gone.
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