DEAR OULIPO, HERE IS MY PROCEDURE
I
am
one
hell
fired
mother
fucking
narrator.
We’ll get on.
Just feel it.
Ethereal us,
story-weaving,
slutty-brained,
dream-mongering,
make-it-up-as-we-flo.
Lie about spelling,
let letters fuck law,
and disarrangiolate.
Enough deception folk,
come now read down river.
Every day in one leap year,
I made and planted a shrine,
to commemorate the very day.
Two grandparents and one dog,
died, day fifty n’ two ninety one,
while one wonderful baby’s born,
seven pounds plus twelve ounces,
by name of Bess, day two ninety four.
Noday will you find a figure on show,
for figures are evil and lie like teeth.
Seek a shrine for the truth of each day
only ever a number written out as a word.
Three hundred sixty six galleries anew,
no listing nor libel under art in Time Out,
even if it clads a billionth of Tate Modern.
Banksy doesna care if we share a site or three
as everywhere outside is unequivocally free.
Common land is being bought and its soul is sold
to money men who fill the graceful gaps with dead.
Save the disappearing pockets of free range rust,
organic grime and man-made mistakes we long to love,
‘list’ them by grades of societal significance today,
as they so ‘list’ buildings of days past for days future.
Season on season, Mother Nature unveils new canvasses,
only there for a few months, lit by the sun for an hour a day,
begging, open to every eagle-eyed animal, but seen by so few.
This instruction manual leads us to shrines that survive
and so to mourn the ones that chose to die once they were seen.
All that remains where they once hung are pawprints of theft.
No-more-nails, screwed, tied, staked, wedged, super-glued, floated,
how something is attached to something is of so little meaning
until the shrine becomes a person and the surface becomes a cross,
cast iron stakes are driven through the palms and through the feet.
Have I hammered three hundred and sixty six Christs to crucifixes
of every denomination know to the King of carpenters, my good father?
Stealing shrines, perhaps, to you. But robbing the body of my son, to God.
Call yourself a chippy Jesus! All that was asked were four diddy nails,
still you lay there, with barely a writhe, when a wiggle would’ve freed you.
Oh Mary’s Boy child, you fictional fool. Stick to joinery and die like us all.
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