Angel was strapped into the back seat. After 88 hours the M25 still curved out in front of the bonnet. She felt like a stone on the end of a rope swung in Trafalgar Square, centrifugal force holding her out of the city. Though it wasn’t. That nonexistent force was really the result of tethered motion, moving forward but held in a loop. That withholding seemed to stop the clock. Here in the Car’s bubble, Angel existed outside of time, travelling to the same spot. The cars driven anti- to her clockwise created a zero sum. After all the fuel was burnt no net gain was made and no time had passed.
The Bell Common Tunnel rang with the sound of engines, this clock always striking zero on a clock face without hands. The Car was tired, its tyres predicting its journey, theirs predicted by white dashes. The Car existed always outside of time, or at least bore it without experience. Angel was light but her Driver was heavy, and the Car wished for speed to lift a proportion of his weight.
Passing the Erith exit, Angel was reminded of plugholes, and the whirlpool at Waterworld in the Midlands. These were the opposites of her current state, sucking in where London held all away. Clacket Lane Services could peer in at least, but Tandridge Golf Club would never get to London. Nor would Wraysbury Reservoir, nor Pinewood Studios. London kept its grime unsullied.
Angel sat still as the Car held everything outside. She thought of this pattern repeated down to her atoms, and she thought of how nothing was created. She thought of poaching an egg. Cracking it into a swirl of water boiling with drops of vinegar.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Thursday, 13 May 2010
Friday, 30 April 2010
remember-me-not
If you’ve two left feet, do you march at half speed? thought Jayne, and Margaret babbled. Jayne remembered running alongside the brook during cross country. The smell among the trees wasn’t like air freshener. The breeze was not like air conditioning. Me mam was a dinnerlady in the days before ketchup, said Margaret. Jayne remembered her brother crouched behind the shrub as the clouds started spitting. Him spitting back at the sky. Also, she remembered streamers hanging in the unlit school hall, and also the big dirty nails on the park keeper’s fingers, some hanging off. You comin down for a fag? asked Margaret as she left. Jayne sat still. I’ll not come to the Christmas party, she said to no one in particular.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Wednesday, 28 April 2010
an uneven keel
Upon stubbing his toe, Edmund’s pain located him more specifically in his body than at other times. He was now mostly located towards the end of his foot. The foot that, stubbing itself, knocked Edmund’s boat figurine from the mantel. The boat that was inscribed ‘Jesus is my boat through the storm’, or something. The foot that was moistening inside his terry towelled socks.
Edmund was decentred, swung to his own extremities. His toe moved to the front door - which opened - and traced the letters of ‘Bless this home’ on the doormat. Edmund went out into the light rain and improved the circumstance of his toe to better catch the drops.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Edmund was decentred, swung to his own extremities. His toe moved to the front door - which opened - and traced the letters of ‘Bless this home’ on the doormat. Edmund went out into the light rain and improved the circumstance of his toe to better catch the drops.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
mmm
“Delicious!” Albert approved of the turtle soup. It had cooked slowly, bubbling almost to the brim on occasion, the old meat drinking in the juice and liquor.
“What next? What next?”
The island’s annual fisherman’s ball was the pinnacle of Albert’s social mountain. He’d never fished himself, but as head postal officer he was as close to a dignitary as the community could muster.
Wiping his greasy finger on his stiff little napkin, he thought of how the soup was even now seeping into his bloodstream, his innards thirsting for its delicious quality, intestines in anticipation, barely contained in their rush to make the soup part of him.
Albert liked very much to maintain his deliciousness.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
“What next? What next?”
The island’s annual fisherman’s ball was the pinnacle of Albert’s social mountain. He’d never fished himself, but as head postal officer he was as close to a dignitary as the community could muster.
Wiping his greasy finger on his stiff little napkin, he thought of how the soup was even now seeping into his bloodstream, his innards thirsting for its delicious quality, intestines in anticipation, barely contained in their rush to make the soup part of him.
Albert liked very much to maintain his deliciousness.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Monday, 19 April 2010
airbag I
Aerodynamics no. 1
I fear open spaces, waver at blind
corners, quicken my step, head down,
hair uprooted like trees, ears boxed,
tears squeezed from half-closed eyes.
I hate this wind that pushes at me,
unravels days like it’s caught my thread.
My father, aerodynamicist, loves
the wind. He gifted my school a hi-tech
anemometer, spent his long days
watching fine powder swirl and play
over models in his wind tunnel,
paper leaves dance in a train’s wake.
Once I am sheltered safe, ears warmed,
nestled in, shielded by double-glazing,
I love to hear the wind howling outside.
Raindrops are flung against the pane,
birds are led through a desperate tango,
while my father brings warm, sweet tea.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
I fear open spaces, waver at blind
corners, quicken my step, head down,
hair uprooted like trees, ears boxed,
tears squeezed from half-closed eyes.
I hate this wind that pushes at me,
unravels days like it’s caught my thread.
My father, aerodynamicist, loves
the wind. He gifted my school a hi-tech
anemometer, spent his long days
watching fine powder swirl and play
over models in his wind tunnel,
paper leaves dance in a train’s wake.
Once I am sheltered safe, ears warmed,
nestled in, shielded by double-glazing,
I love to hear the wind howling outside.
Raindrops are flung against the pane,
birds are led through a desperate tango,
while my father brings warm, sweet tea.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
airbag II
Aerodynamics no. 2
I’m not a bully wind, I’d rather
run buffeted through tight streets,
scratched by trees in parks.
Chimneys don’t whistle for me.
Laundry on lines flaps and jeers.
Drains grate me into sewers.
Tall buildings funnel me,
spin me desperately at dead ends.
Leaving the city I stoop low
to stroke grass, spread to fill valleys,
tumble over hills, before swooping up
to tease clouds into Rorschach blots.
I merry-go-round windmills,
carry dandelion clocks away into wishes.
I am the wind that hurries over
the top of wings to keep birds in flight.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
I’m not a bully wind, I’d rather
run buffeted through tight streets,
scratched by trees in parks.
Chimneys don’t whistle for me.
Laundry on lines flaps and jeers.
Drains grate me into sewers.
Tall buildings funnel me,
spin me desperately at dead ends.
Leaving the city I stoop low
to stroke grass, spread to fill valleys,
tumble over hills, before swooping up
to tease clouds into Rorschach blots.
I merry-go-round windmills,
carry dandelion clocks away into wishes.
I am the wind that hurries over
the top of wings to keep birds in flight.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
against the grain
Swimming to the Buoy
I swam for the buoy as fast as I could
against barging shoulders. Balanced finely
in salt-heavy waves, went further than I should,
looked back to the beach, squinted for the tiny
figures who’d mostly tired of watching me.
I swam harder to show them I was brave,
that I was thin but strong, that I could be
more than a flaw on the face of tall waves.
As I let water slide over me, a fleet
of rough coffin lids, I have no regrets:
my narrow legs feel strong down to my feet,
I breathe out fights, rivalries, dissolve debts.
Now I lie down on the seabed, forget
spectators, and how I longed for biceps.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
I swam for the buoy as fast as I could
against barging shoulders. Balanced finely
in salt-heavy waves, went further than I should,
looked back to the beach, squinted for the tiny
figures who’d mostly tired of watching me.
I swam harder to show them I was brave,
that I was thin but strong, that I could be
more than a flaw on the face of tall waves.
As I let water slide over me, a fleet
of rough coffin lids, I have no regrets:
my narrow legs feel strong down to my feet,
I breathe out fights, rivalries, dissolve debts.
Now I lie down on the seabed, forget
spectators, and how I longed for biceps.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Monday, 15 February 2010
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angelic psychotherapy
On Angels, & Death
after Donald Barthelme
“The death of God left the angels in a strange position.”
Without a God to adore, what are Angels for?
Eternal lamentation was proposed instead –
nostalgic silence over ceaseless Glorias.
Or perhaps they could confirm chaos in God-death?
Dignified refusal-to-be was refused outright.
Angels tried to adore each other, like Man, but
it was “not enough”. They made T.V. appeals
for purpose, permanence. But grieving much like Man,
Angels are often longsighted, so sing on, wordless,
fearful their notes might scatter like seeds in breeze.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
after Donald Barthelme
“The death of God left the angels in a strange position.”
Without a God to adore, what are Angels for?
Eternal lamentation was proposed instead –
nostalgic silence over ceaseless Glorias.
Or perhaps they could confirm chaos in God-death?
Dignified refusal-to-be was refused outright.
Angels tried to adore each other, like Man, but
it was “not enough”. They made T.V. appeals
for purpose, permanence. But grieving much like Man,
Angels are often longsighted, so sing on, wordless,
fearful their notes might scatter like seeds in breeze.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
cradles & civilisation
Abacus
In the classroom veneered tabletops,
showing repeated waves of grain,
support paint, paper, an abacus.
The crossbeams like blinds
secured by primary colours,
the abacus filters sums.
A slow game of marbles
that you cannot play.
They are abacus beads.
You learn about Richard of York,
threaded spheres of blue, red, yellow.
Abacus, fractured rainbow.
Moulded paint pastels
strung on cool wire, but
you can only paint numbers.
Counting in discreet units,
the abacus will never blur
like the paints in the water jar.
Cold metal swings through my fingers
as I teach tens and units,
while you sing marbles.
My baby plays with her abacus,
symbol of mathematics,
shaking to my song,
while the abacus counts
the years from childhood,
without an hourglass’s inevitability.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
In the classroom veneered tabletops,
showing repeated waves of grain,
support paint, paper, an abacus.
The crossbeams like blinds
secured by primary colours,
the abacus filters sums.
A slow game of marbles
that you cannot play.
They are abacus beads.
You learn about Richard of York,
threaded spheres of blue, red, yellow.
Abacus, fractured rainbow.
Moulded paint pastels
strung on cool wire, but
you can only paint numbers.
Counting in discreet units,
the abacus will never blur
like the paints in the water jar.
Cold metal swings through my fingers
as I teach tens and units,
while you sing marbles.
My baby plays with her abacus,
symbol of mathematics,
shaking to my song,
while the abacus counts
the years from childhood,
without an hourglass’s inevitability.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Sunday, 29 November 2009
between toes
Holiday in Cromer
Slicing seawalls cut feet,
salt breaks over fish ’n’ chips.
Buckets of cool water
dislodge castle foundations.
Chicken pox sister’s blisters
divide parental duties.
Pushchair brothers in shades
drip icecream into nappies.
Walks stretch to France and back
to fetch forgotten suncream.
RNLI pencil case
swallows sand like seagulls.
Cardigans break breezes
pulled in by setting sun.
At night twelve flip flops sleep
on three caravan steps.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Slicing seawalls cut feet,
salt breaks over fish ’n’ chips.
Buckets of cool water
dislodge castle foundations.
Chicken pox sister’s blisters
divide parental duties.
Pushchair brothers in shades
drip icecream into nappies.
Walks stretch to France and back
to fetch forgotten suncream.
RNLI pencil case
swallows sand like seagulls.
Cardigans break breezes
pulled in by setting sun.
At night twelve flip flops sleep
on three caravan steps.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
Thursday, 12 November 2009
Wednesday, 21 October 2009
little electricy on the prairie
Seeing Ball Lightning Is Believing
“A long ball of fire was rolling down the stovepipe…
Ma tried to brush it into the ashpan.”
On the Banks of Plum Creek, Laura Ingalls Wilder
The ball entered the church,
evaporated Holy Water,
knelt at pews till they smoked,
burnt hymn books into soot.
At each station of the cross
this impossible electric force
caressed a carved Christ with fire,
splitting and doubling his strife.
At the altar there was no stoop
to bended knee, no crossing,
just sparks and ascending flame:
vestments burned thread by thread.
Until Ma Ingalls took up her brush
to sweep that pentecostal ball away.
The good parishners were careful
not to play cards in the pews again.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
“A long ball of fire was rolling down the stovepipe…
Ma tried to brush it into the ashpan.”
On the Banks of Plum Creek, Laura Ingalls Wilder
The ball entered the church,
evaporated Holy Water,
knelt at pews till they smoked,
burnt hymn books into soot.
At each station of the cross
this impossible electric force
caressed a carved Christ with fire,
splitting and doubling his strife.
At the altar there was no stoop
to bended knee, no crossing,
just sparks and ascending flame:
vestments burned thread by thread.
Until Ma Ingalls took up her brush
to sweep that pentecostal ball away.
The good parishners were careful
not to play cards in the pews again.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2009
