ANDREW NIGHTENGALE

My work has previously been published in a number of UK small press magazines such as Orbis, Manifold, Staple etc as well as in ezines such as Stride, Alterran Poetry Assemblage and Sidereality.

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I CAGED COY MOJO

for Amalia

1.

Why? Why to capture the envoy
then fix it. Fix its movements
to steel rails. To move tram-like.

Muses: spirits that possess.
Shy anima fixations. Mojo
forced by rails to talk.

Always travelling,
the envoy looks out of sooty carriage windows:
she holds a secret message.

I spend all my time waiting on an empty platform:
Amalia, now stone dead, is coming tonight by rail.
She has stolen information.
I wait, taking a chance,
but it's the old Triestine Honeytrap: femme
fatale!

The envoy is a secret agent:
I can see her figure silhouetted, carrying an
attaché
case.
She's bringing her dead words to a warm mouth.
The air around her resonates,
the planchette is rattling,
and everything she has to say comes through in
secret
code.
What she reveals, no-one else can ever read.

2.

An envoy speaks out loud.
Internal speech leaks outside:
her voice has automated paradox.

An automated paradox:
a paradox because it's out there
and automated because it's tram-like and can't go
off
the rails.

Gustave Moreau's muse is all gossamer and light.
I can't get to grips with this painting.
I'm taking her out of it,
placing her on a crowded tram,
putting a letter in her hand,
waiting on a platform again for her visit,
for mojo to make tracks
with word from heaven's secret agencies.

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FOR A CUP OF COFFEE

1.

In Palo Alto they conducted experiments on ESP.
Its
strength, at times, was increased three-fold.

Local Sidereal Time was key. Spottiswode found
performance increased daily, when certain stars
were
overhead as though calda luce cremosa was pouring
down. I prefer coffee. I find good strong espresso
has
a similar effect on anomalous cognition when my
eyes
tire of Adriatic light. Miei occhi falliscono al
buio.
When we fail we listen, and the radio starts
coming
through.

But as far as radio sets are concerned,
it's an old analogy now...

Spicer. Strong coffee. Staring downwards, darkness
turns. Stirring spoon. Sip.

Swallow. This is Heimarmene. The compulsion that
distant stars steadily exert, inserting our
desires
from outside. Remote bodies are grains of white
sugar
- their sweet modulations can be misleading.
They're
added from outside the borders of the cup, spirits
to
work on us, such well-behaved customers.
Tremulous,
hyped, entranced by the vortex...... Look! Mars!
Broadcasting!

2.

Each morning I wake up early,
four minutes before yesterday:
the stars hold sway over sunlight.
The world keeps turning, meanwhile
I sit tingling with strong Mocha in
Trieste, on a shady table outside the Caffé Degli
Specchi.
She must exist: black goddess,
my poisoner:

I mean, if I suddenly thought I could do without
it,
I'd do without

Day is ending and only cinnamon-sprinkles will
break
the spell.
The harbour lights oppose the stars
turning against the frictionless dome: hours,
days,
months:
I've written nothing and I'm stuck fast between
yellowing pages
aging slowly. Please, Amalia,
get me coffee!