Nathaniel

Nathaniel
Ian McLachlan
in Mimesis 2 Summer 2007

Part 1

i

Nathaniel, acrobat,
Zen student, poet,
spiritual warrior,
perhaps. Some say
angel. Let us see.

ii

January.
Hunting Nathaniel.
In the snow I find foot-prints.
His?

iii

There. He inhales,
bends, raises
a hidden weight,
breathing out,
lowers it. In
a nearby barrel's
liquid depths,
the moon.

iv

My cell phone chimes.
Jean. Where am I?
I lie. Watch him
raising the moon.

v

Back late, he
takes a shower,
does Mantis press-
ups, fixes a snack,
meditates. These
in no special order.

Part 2

i

In their concrete tower
Shell's directors inspect
a map, wish to turn his
back yard into a mall,
gym in the basement
for city drones. Now,
Nathaniel, atop a wall,
180 Cats to a ledge,
his muscles, packed.

ii

Taken from Nathaniel's journal ...

Fundamentals:

1)
2)
3)

iii

A glow in the city,
Nathaniel, in white
trainers, enters
a throbbing club.

I heard
he never sleeps
with the same girl
twice.

iv

Cue chalked,
he rolls up
a chequered sleeve,
takes a long pot.

Hush.

On his arm,
new scars.

Part 3

i

Down Cat Alley,
easy-limbed, alone,
he runs.

May morning,
London, his.

Boats tied up
on the Thames'
bank creak –
a rusty lullaby.

He passes
a Starbuck's.

Nothing on
his mind
but running.

Reaching
a flight of steps

he leaps.

ii

Who is Nathaniel?
Who does he see
when he jerks off,
fold his arm round
before sleep?

iii

Top deck, sweet-
flowered cannabis,
misted windows,
worn seats. No
stars tonight.

Part 4

i

Three perch
on a branch.
More below,
sun-bathing,
sharing cider,
weed. An I-
Pod wired to
speakers hums:
Time Will Tell.
To the youngest,
the one who
wants to join in,
isn't sure how,
he speaks.

ii

It's said the closer you come
to God, the more it hurts.

He tramps the summer street,
in a sleeveless vest. Big cat,

small town. He brushes past
strangers, whistling. How much

does he hurt? Now, slipping
by him, we make eye contact,

I think. His sunglasses flash.
He's gone. He's smoke.

iii

'Try this,' he says –
a one-handed hand-stand.
The world upside down.
A rush of blood to the head.
Nathaniel, you bastard!
How did you get so free?

iv

A park sit-up bench,
staring up at blue sky.
He curls a hand round
the bench's cool iron
bar and busts clouds.

Part 5

i

Urban myth, I want you
dead. Your perfection is

my crucifix. Nathaniel,
you've stolen too much

airtime. How can I exist
where you are?

ii

Both lanes blocked
on the escalator.
By the handrails,
barriers. Nathaniel,
confined, losing
his cool. Why think
we'll let you by?

iii

At the gig,
Nathaniel,
downing JDs.
Girls want him,
but he didn't
get where he is
by taking easy
bets. Besides,
someone told me
he wasn't that
way inclined.

iv

Cocaine, cut
in the bathroom,
loosens tongues.
Fallen into a well,
he's speechless.

Part 6

i

Delicate as rice paper,
easily torn,
he comes unfixed
from a hoped-for love.

I watch it happen.

Part 7

i

Rooftop. Gunshot.
Doves spray upwards.

This close to death.

Nathaniel, swarming
down a drainpipe.

11.23pm.

He's swearing,
spitting teeth.

Did he recognise
the assassin?

ii

He has been to Rome,
questioned
the philosophy students
in their black
trench coats,
talked with the African
street-hawkers
who greet passers-by
with ivory smiles –
'Ciao, bello!'

By the Fall,
he's in LA.

iii

Enough of Nathaniel.
Who am I?

A butterfly catcher.

iv

Bearded, in the ocean,
I watch you play with a child,
carry him up a blonde dune,
spade sand with him, buy
ice creams. Is it true
you have a son?

Part 8

Epilogue

Sun through the blanket,
muted on the white walls
& Marshall amp. Street-
heat, bike, sometimes I fall.
By pale blue sea I remove
my shoes, touch the water.
Look. A skater-girl flips,
flags snap, seagulls stagger
the breeze. Easy to lose
balance, the air half free.
Later, I'll make a fire.