Tom Jenks

 

From sublunar

(12)

in the meadows, the meadows, the buttercup meadows
parsley, parsley in the buttercup meadowes

in certain portraits I am depicted
with a particular type of propelling pencil
the type with which I wrote my magnum opus
The Terrifying Interior Monologues of Owls

der Eulen der Eulen der schrecklich Eulen
und stars, starres and parsley

bad King John he invented leg wax
and lasers yes, he invented lasers

what patience, Walsingham, to assemble so exactly
the clockwork cardinals that whirr in my dreams

long evenings where the river bends
green and green at the end of the century
what lies within the yellow pagoda?
all the sad erotica of Belgium

parsley, parsley in the buttercup meadowes

eight miles north of the Antonine Wall
the lions laid out their labyrinth
and in their tranquil aquaria
the wholetail scampi knew not sorrow

Atlantis, Xanadu, Skelmersdale
all kingdoms too and Milton Keynes

this is all of English history
the mystical wok of Saint Thomas à Becket

parsley, parsley in the buttercup meadowes
in the meadows, the meadows, the buttercup meadows




(13)

and wizard Bob saw the comet in the glass
and reached in his britches for the special stone
and in the redoubt of the ancient fort
the beans were ground into paper cups

and were there bears, father?
yes, there were bears
and was their cheesecake, father?
yes, there was cheesecake
and did the bears eat the cheesecake, father?
yes, my child, but reluctantly

and wizard Bob tore down the curtains
and put up an extra shelf in the pantry

the shelf that houses the pickles, father?
yes, the shelf that houses the pickles
the silverskin onions, the eggs and the gherkins, father?
yes, the silverskin onions, the eggs and the gherkins
and was the shelf fashioned from sturdy teak, father?
yes, my child, like the handle of your bucket

drip drip drip goes the rain in the saucepans
the wind comes from the north, through the corn



(17)

parakeet, parakeet where have you been?
I’ve been to the London Borough of Hackney
parakeet, parakeet what did you there?
I bought a falafel and put it on Twitter

I sent her a sausage roll in the post
I sent her a flat pack family sized toadstool

out beyond the bottle bank
ghosts drift through the rhododendrons

Shelley had a way with birds
as Wogan had a way with wisdom:
never trust a surrealist plumber
you can’t high five a one armed bandit




(24)

down in the scrub with book and candle
Miss Haversham, neon pink, at her casement

she warms the speckled eggs in water
she cools the speckled eggs in milk

I dangle the spaghetti over her lips
it is erotic, like it is in France
I love her like an abandoned milk float
in a ballad by Sting, the troubadour

she places the speckled eggs in the leaves
she places the eggs in the speckled leaves

Sir Brian, good and constant dachshund
come close and shiver with me in the mallow
later we will visit the wyrm in his cave
and there make art with retractable crayons

winter comes on, in the afternoon
none but a solitary star remains

Copyright © Tom Jenks 2016

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Tom Jenks' most recent book is Spruce (Blart Books), with Sublunar forthcoming from Oystercatcher Press soon. He co-organises The Other Room reading series, administers the avant objects imprint zimZalla and is completing a PhD at Edge Hill University. More at zshboo.org