SENTINEL POETRY

ONLINE MAGAZINE MONTHLY     ISSUE #10 SEPTEMBER 2003     ISSN 1479-425X

BRUCE ACKERLEY SIX POEMS


Doppelganger
 
My eyes have seen you -
In the far light of attic windows,
Polish of a simple spoon.
 
Every day is the same.
It is I, who am blown each way
From spoke to spoke.
 
I, who should have known
When he slipped - jet-black,
From the grocer's slab -
 
The serpent is your only sign.
A drip from a land soon a-flood
With scales; my vision rimmed
 
With lime; fangs too - for that matter,
And even the fearful Hatter
Would run from my disarray.
 
When like leaves; like drying sheets
You shake out sanity,
Through to the final fold.
 
Where I fall in the lap
Of a passing train; packed
To the gunwales
 
And every passenger's face -
The same; the same torn look
Of heads hung up like bells.
 
The ticket collector's no time
For my ticket - And his face
Of course, is mine!
 
So we go - like Goya,
To the murder rooms; rooms
Without doors. Where I break
 
With the beat
Of St Vitus fists, till the blood
Runs over the floor.

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