april 2016

 

                                        (i)

 

...one night an entire planet

tumbled its mass through my head

 

trashing, as it went, my weightless blood

angels ran across my face

 

tearing themselves to pieces

one swallowed its own hands

 

another ran over

and dropped an embryo into my mouth

 

I was, it seemed, at the centre of some maligned creation

an organelle, a codon, a virus

 

primed to track the human heart

to colonise the imagination

 

with yet another new, epic paradise

evil in high-definition

 

then no-one, I suppose, could miss

these angels disintegrating

 

pixel by pixel

the last moments of solitude

 

leaving my weightless body

the brave unity of reason

 

suddenly falling apart

expiring beneath the blinding smoke...

 

 

                                                (ii)

 

...I write for no-one but the lonely eye

the quiet, lawless gremlin beneath my face

 

for only he knows of the frail palimpsest

the inky skin of the mastermind

 

my parchment self

a farce, an agony

 

announcing the x and the y of life

these dim, flat halleluiahs

 

this mind that rises only when it sleeps

a nagging, physical melancholy

 

that is never at rest

that is always erupting

 

always trying to trawl my bones

for yet more irrepressible clarity

 

the one, indivisible agony

the explosive stealth of the mastermind

 

my inky farce

a drama reaching out to test

 

the x and the y

that rise and rise and never rest

 

this delirious understanding that seems to come alive

the very moment it dies...

 

 

                                        (iii)

 

...only fire should give birth to words

for only with words can there be the birth of fire

 

of children ablaze with the immensity of themselves

untamed, wilful, irreverent

 

their unread verses littering the cosmos

a world tempting inspiration

 

inspiration tempting the world

a lure to again re-write creation

 

with a knife that cuts as it unites

left with right, black with white

 

this erudite, reckless inferno

resonating with the insights of lunatics

 

those ivory-eyed princes

left masturbating outside in the unlit streets

 

their unread hearts littering the cosmos

a fire that quenches fire

 

and the irreverent generations continue to sing

untamed by their immensity

 

a song sung in silence

with words unable to be words...

 

 

 

                                               (iv)

 

...every day there is – and always has been – this fight

this fixed, cold appointment

 

waiting at the foot of my bed

an unconscious, iron cauldron

 

that pretends to breathe

music and sunlight

 

the blue fingers closing around my ankles

ready at any moment

 

to pull my implacable mind

down across the sheets

 

deep into the waving arms

a sleep that bites itself in the mirror

 

a lens which quietly dwarfs the universe

the unconscious iron pretending to breathe

 

birdsong and sonnets

and the erotic certainty of death

 

the insufficient truth of my own reflection

in the abyss behind the mirror

 

in the mirror behind the abyss...

 

 

 

                                         (v)

 

...we have always powered the Sun’s naivety

straightened its path

 

turned ice into innocence

and picked its atoms from our eyes

 

and yet we are still not sure what we are

men threaded along a wire

 

our smiles unravelling time

our blue teeth gleaming with data

 

this proud, new hunger to beatify autocracy

the online gestapo

 

recycling loyalty and torture

and even though we are still not sure

 

we double-click

just to ejaculate into strangers

 

innocence into ice

ice into innocence

 

this monstrous thirst for precision

another digital vacuum

 

the sunlight’s surgical path

blurring even more the outlines

 

of this, our last, imperfect mystery...