There is no Pattern, for a ne'er forgotten muse

There is no pattern

Underneath the posturing of these bipolar skies

beneath the tissues and the scarring

beneath those widowed eyes

beneath the vivid lines of a life long-lived

beneath a star and its shadower

behind the chemical bars and the centres-for-health

beneath the floors in her character

beneath the right conveniences for someone in her condition

beneath the battered canvass beneath the bed

behind the tattered toilet bag of letters

beneath the dead woman

beneath the dead girl hanging with embroidered cassette covers

beneath the hedgerows, behind the headstones

beneath the ballroom behind blackpool tower

beneath the condoms and the headgames

beneath the Johnstonian admissions

beneath the foraging of amateurs into an unknown jungle

behind the promises of sex. Beneath the pattern