july 2017

 

                             (i)

 

...why do I have these stars

these sentinels with their armour-piercing light years

 

pushing at my back

can’t they see the filaments of quartz

 

growing from my eyes

my calcified atria clinging to the heat

 

can’t they hear the lightbulbs singing

the mountains being eaten

 

can’t they tell it’s just god’s death mask

still reciting, still dreaming scripture

 

but remember, these immense loyalties

are nothing more than spells, thoughts, charms

 

brief condensations of madness

that, I suspect, want me torn to pieces

 

the carnivorous syntax already braced

for a head-on, blackout collision with language

 

because once they have left the mouth

what can words truly, truly mean

 

as they slowly evaporate

and float down the years of light

 

from one fingertip universe to the next

fading, always fading, until the moment of impact...

 

 

 

                                (ii)

 

...whenever this vacant, wayfaring heart

stares at the solid ground

 

it is certain some muddy intuition

is digging another hole in my head

 

and even though I can feel and see peoples’ faces

caught in the gravel between my feet

 

the strain of such universal cunning

becomes now a bizarre rosary of words

 

for the ground immediately returns my stare with unbearable vengeance

no insight, no sting, no joy

 

just the usual crippled epiphany

staining each and every page

 

a universal blemish

that desperately tries to refill the holes in my head

 

with gravel and the fragments of muddied faces

an intuition that has only ever dug for revenge

 

never for the austere joy

of watching the ground melt away

 

the one cunning paternoster

that pulls aside the wayfarer’s heart...

 

 

 

                           (iii)

 

...and meantime, while still defying gravity

the writing hand guides the dead

 

to release their vast, frozen identities

to yield and to kiss the black sands

 

like showers of weird birds escaping a cage

but as each second hits the earth

 

such strange creatures simply dissolve into themselves

their minds folding and unfolding

 

though still holding on

to the one, sweet linchpin of  their existence – 

 

love’s rare, greasy moments

however, there is a problem

 

it is really the dead who guide the writing hand

not the reverse

 

it is we who hit the earth every second

we are gravity’s immense cage

 

whose identity was frozen

in that strange, first flush of blood

 

it is we who dissolve into ourselves all there is of love

we are the only ornament

 

the only escape from our vast existence...

 

 

 

                              iv)

 

...for so long we have watched eternity’s unerring lies

and done so with such chilling curiosity

 

those darling buds have now a sweetness no-one wants

for such unwilling beauty stirs no enemies

 

nor does it pixilate easily

therefore give me your hand

 

and together let’s trace around a sphere

through which no falsehoods can ever pass

 

a refuge in which to take apart the world

and start again

 

the spit on god’s face

a reminder the cosmos was born from our mouths

 

for we are the unerring sweetness

the curious beauty that darkens

 

those darling words, faces, choirs

and all that we wish of truth

 

so give me your hand, but remember

if nothing false can enter

 

nothing false can ever leave...