Iain Britton


Transparency of the Word


It’s about one man

born and bred in captivity


somewhere between the person I was

and the person I am. He’s a


walker of galaxies, a loner, an

unpaid healer of others


who’ve screwed up their buckled

and bent lives. I


met him once on a city street

heading east


following a mountain range

heaped up on the horizon


picking weeds from gardens

and searching for the silence


of a woman. A woman, he

knew intimately


like the transparent flesh of a word, a

woman whose breath


whispers from the desert, whose body

shifts loosely


insubstantially, whose face is a mirage

of something spectacular to touch. He


chooses to pick up shattered pieces of

thoughts left over by people


like myself on the move. He

chooses to be housed in the moist


spaciousness of this woman, to be

rejuvenated, a man


who believes in doing what’s good and

good only, in doing

what others want to hate. I’ve

seen this in him before, seen the


stones thrown at him, had a go

myself at smashing down the


bugger’s dependency on her. I’ve tried

garrotting him with his own


meticulously braided ropes of

light, but he always wins. He has


learnt to fall asleep with the sun

clicking like a metronome in his ear.



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Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43  - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X

The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede

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