David Grubb
The Bare Hurt Exploding Mongol Poem
Mongols heave me through the
rain. I have only been here since
Saturday. We are screaming ghosts
and we are shouting names at the
trees wondering why cars do not
silently explode.
They run onto the beach.
I take all of them onto the sand
in winter. It is winter. It is
Saturday. We rush at the sea and it
keeps disappearing into the sky.
Round a camp fire at night their
faces are the ruins of giant
turnips, fleshy turds with holes
for minds.
The hurt we bare each other
cannot be named. Pianos catch fire
in skies of clear January. A few
people see us and do not want us
and walk away. Sixteen mongols at
Tintagel bombarding the stones
with sick flesh. Ripping the history
off its hook. A few people see this
juggling with wounds.
On the way back in the coach
two of them fall asleep together.
A star slides out of the sky.
If they kiss the password is buggery
and a million waves catching fire.
Suddenly they are clutching blue
curtains. It’s morning and an old
orange horse that has rolled in the
mud falls into the sea that
murders with bells.
Page(s) 71
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