Nigel Farage (1964 – )
‘We are deep at play in the makeshift’ – Maggie Nelson
Your split-pastoral English voice fogs the room,
a choir of none, clart & indivisible. Don’t start
your songs with ‘I don’t mean to be offensive
but…’ Damage, my lover, is your special tune.
Madness can be defined, briefly, as the depth
of resistance I can voice in between your flat
vibrato, the queerest soundwaves that mount
in spirals toward the bait of my unmade breath.
I count not as the user or the used, as abused
or abuser, but as the uncountable felt blessing
that is always misspelt as ‘headline’, the echo in
rhetoric. My life will not be another one’s ruse.
Quite a lot of people are drunk in our marital bed,
Nigel. You’ve asked them to leave, afraid at
the radical prospect of a new word for lovemaking.
You think thoughts that are either alive or dead.
O bog-hearted binary! O ontological either/or!
You were such a strange lover, raw – & conformed
to the rules of flight. I tell you how I live unformed,
undefined, unwritten by your pale body of law,
yet you are lost in the old science of opposites –
forgetting how to fail, how to unmake yourself,
singing me your shit symphony of border control
while at night I hum the queerest soundwaves,
scoring your fear of the incomplete stave by stave.
Andrew F Giles writes and researches poetry in Bristol. He recently convened the Bristol to Bath Festival of Nature Poetry Trail 2016, commissioning poems from Tania Hershman, Holly Corfield Carr and Carrie Etter. He tweets @AndrewFGiles2 and has a website here: http://andrewgiles.jimdo.com