february 2017

 

                                   (i)

 

...across the table, each night, a sulphurous face

invites me to join the well-wishers

 

it even winks in my direction

and nods its approval

 

yet defiantly I clench my mind

unprepared as I am to grimace my part

 

this act full of hazardous intent

an acid that would doubtlessly dissolve my entire person

 

for how can I ever forget

that I was once born alone

 

fatherless, motherless

just littered, dropped on sacred ground

 

and left beside the road to decipher my own existence

alone with reality stuffed into my mouth

 

so please do not expect me to show obedience

to the stench of birth

 

or to any montage of well-wishing saints

who, with their sulphurous, yellow breath

 

inflame and then suck my body dry

and so my grimace stands

 

a part of my undissolved personality

I am, I suppose, the serious fugitive

 

the thief with hazardous intent

whose hands have, for years, been clenched in rebellion...

 

 

 

                        (ii)

 

...like dry leaves crowding the gutters

everyone knows the way to the underworld

 

the harsh, crimson vortex

that feeds on memory

 

on the ash of faces

this immense, devouring silence

 

that treads and marks the universe

that shows to all its impeccable hostility

 

to what could well be the last few spoken words

crowding the gutters

 

these hellish, wild, delirious psyches

being eaten by fire

 

as the first heavy drops of rain

smack the leaves

 

high above the universe

it is indeed a harsh, devouring thunder

 

this oppressive certainty

of only ever having been

 

some pointless excrement of creation

a simple error on a page

 

of tumultuous dreams

and all that was memorable and good

 

consumed by the first strike of lightning...

 

                     

 

               (iii)

 

...often, all along the infinite boundary

there are these whispers of the changeling

 

the shoreline where rocks articulate chaos and bones

and, of course, these ever-so timely bastards

 

emerging upright from the surf

humans who roar with joy

 

because they hold behind their eyes

the seething malfeasance of a million predators

 

celebrities who, with perfect teeth

cheat each and every foetus of its ego

 

whose whispers seem to burst with immortality

with some fabulous rendition of the truth

 

and yet rising from the sand

come the many hands of the dead

 

and one very special changeling

who engraves the names of god on its faeces

 

all along the infinite boundary

the ocean’s brutal, grotesque choreography

 

the one threat that decides the fate of all

the roar behind the glass...