FROZEN TO THE CORE, to synthesized

accompaniment, algorithmic ice-crystals

swarming in the air. The lyric plays

both ways, wins over the stop-whining crowd

whilst spoofing aspiration. Formally

we’re trapped, wherever; substitution

feigns mobility in stasis, like a sliding

block-puzzle, shunting the empty square

from place to place. Hard to imagine

this as a hit: what were the punters thinking?

A DEAL WITH GOD the best you can make out for

unless young-moneyed, darling of the age:

no pact or reason possible with anarchy-

the-skeleton dancing in our worthless hides.

* * *

I am compiling a dictionary of phrases quoted in these poems - the first here is from “Wouldn’t it be good” by Nick Kershaw, the second from “Running up that hill” by Kate Bush: both songs about wanting to change places, to exchange miseries or ecstasies with another - a trope that seemed to have a particular resonance at the time.