Frontoviks

They all arrived within a dream,

and in that dream, they wore

their faces.

With acrid sleep scrunched in-between

the teeth

(alongside with my eyes), they stooped or squatted,

lost in places,

or chain-smoked through the years.

Years passed us by.

I nodded without hope. What hope had I —

who scratched for traces of that home —

of understanding: 'we’re from there'?

They spoke and I just watched

dim diamonds watch me from their faces.

Twisted, torn-up lives repressed inside

the bodies,

all their bodies —

bodies that had followed them from ‘there’ —

perverted how they even stood

inside that cold Great British day.

Yet stand they did.

The Frontoviks.

The men made bare in flatland hell,

burnt through until the soul screamed through

in wolf-bark rage: we’re from Ukraine.

They treaded ground as men who’d fallen,

as men who’d been where worlds collapse,

yet, sinking under, through the ground

(where love and spirit can’t be bound

into a purpose),

they weren’t still.

They pulled the noose again and climbed.

Beyond their want; their fear;

themselves;

beyond their peace in pieces they

climbed on…words cannot describe

that feeling when you hear: 'farewell,

I said to life, and now I’m here.'

Bent-double, yes, but not for glory.

They shuffled through this time and space,

this soft green dew of English fields,

this whole eternity for them,

in careful trudges of an infant —

unsure if earth would hold beneath —

because they had to. Because 'there,

everything is violet,' he said.

So here they stood.

All dazed, confused;

day one of days when it just rains

(and not remains);

when heaven’s clear:

hell’s not inverted over here.

And you cannot take your eyes off them —

for fear they’ll disappear,

back home.

Or you will, passport Orpheus

(who never dreamed of turning back)

if you now dare to turn your back.

Days marched into their yesterdays

as well; as without time, tomorrow,

for the words, these dusty fools

re-lived again what was not still

(what still will live in memories

or lifelong wayward sentences)

right then.

As ‘there’ now wouldn’t wait.

I witnessed them baptise themselves

with fags, lipped round lopsided smiles

and steam from cheapskate instant coffee

cups,

to gargle out the senselessness

before it ripped their throats apart

tomorrow and tomorrow and…

'Them katsaps lost their goddam heads,'

they’d say,

'they murder without rhyme

or reason — aimlessly — besides

the reason to just kill…' (every

retort, you’ll note, ignored past tense),

'…who thought that it would be like this?'

'The court of law? What court exists

for turkeys who just cleanse? This war…'

'…it’s like that sayin’ ‘bout the circus —

he, who served, won’t laugh when in there…'

'…when in trenches…curled, mid-air…try ’n

make sure the roof won’t slide' '…round and…'

'Capsule! Charge! Beware!' '…tell ‘er: darling —

as she stares — tie him up or he’ll re…'

'…turn ’n turn through air..' '…well, speaking

frankly, it’s not prayer; you just try

to hold together…' '…can I ask?'

'…we serve together…pick his brains —

his brains are leaking — is this weighing?'

'…tears start streaking, down the street and…'

'…you don’t need it, you…believe me…

…we will meet and we’ll play chess and…

'…now you’re nothing — prefix ‘ex’ — stand

straight ‘no-one’! be aware now!' '…when

the roof goes underneath me…' '…when

three months pass in the basement, ate

…a pickle! Cut three ways — days, go…'

'…when me, my brother — had one — brother;

had one — he’s now sniped. Me now only…'

'It’s these nights…they are so silent, just

so…clear…' '…how much are fags around…'

'…right here’s my death, I think, discharged…'

'…beware!' 'Be…where?' '…son’s at Bakhmut…'

'…curled mid-air…' '…hell for them all up in…'

'There they are, just corpses, lying,

ours and theirs, inside an alley,

others froze in fields and, thawing,

stank so much it mesmerises,

piled up — you know? — unforming,

faceless, when we then, them, turning,

drag, or scrape, away from that there…'

'Burning!' '…and as you then writhe in,

here and there, you cannot stop it…'

'…you just hope that it will bypass…'

'…raining by you, and legs buckle

(something locked right deep inside you),

people, turning, think ‘poor fool boy,’

yet they’re pouring and they’re pouring…'

'It’s good to talk — you know? — to share…'

'Our world is violet in there.'

Perhaps because this is before

the end — before the point of seizure:

when the barriers will cease before

a point and pointlessness; when Eva

will not form beneath the ether;

because these men still had a ribcage,

the broken frame of our existence

would survive, I thought.

Or dreams would.

The idea of beginning

at the end — of re-emergence —

insurrection in the nether

as you fend for life together.

What’s a simpler way to put it?

When they arrived the world unhollowed.

They came as dreams come, half asleep,

inhabiting within them something

other,

something howling from beyond,

defiled and deep; a ripped up tether

that long had ceased to form an end

(or was it: end had ceased to form?).

It ceased to matter.

They’d been to where

an end is matter without form —

and so the end itself had ceased.

Yet they did not.

They were not hollow.

Within a world that’s hollowed through

by hollow men who stand cross-armed,

or cross armed when they have no cross

to bear — bewitched by our world’s burning

hue —

these guys, in spite of witnessing

the ceasure, clasped my hand like it

was treasure;

as, still, men with callused

palms and fingers, and with arms that

could embrace as with their eyes which

still could cry, which still had ‘mama’

written in them; eyes that promised:

beyond there, there is still here and

underpinning all of this; all our

dreams, devotions, dues, all

that is true;

there is a core. Perhaps because we’ve

lived before.