december 2018
(i)
...what, in that case, are we to make
of these strange, burning kaleidoscopes
with their hearts and contradictions
dotted about the sky
their immense veins overflowing
freezing out every hint of mercy
are they epicentres, fewtrils
bags, items in a window
just what are we to make
of these capillaries teeming with light
we read the spectra
yet see only rhetoric
we spin the codes
yet only grasp martyrdom
we estimate, anticipate, calculate
yet fate still spits into our eyes like a snake
these burning contradictions
these strange globules of light
that blaze without mercy
that teem with the colours of forever...
(ii)
...eternity is derelict, the dead voice called
and so are you
beneath your fingernails
I can already see scraps of destitution
so stay away
this place exists only in whispers
I am the dark breath of anguish
the torn pericardium
the void that clearly never began
yet somehow learnt to conjugate a verb
learn then to rejoice beyond yourself
for happiness always comes to push the earth on its way
it floats like a high veil above the oceans
reminding mankind of the risks
it is a hazardous love
an anguish that could break existence
so come, clean your fingernails
and let your hands dig freely
into the soft, white sands
the place of whispers
of far, far too many whispers...
(iii)
...here, on this new, tempting planet
only the rocks debate justice
only the black sands grasp loyalty
and only on these deep red escarpments
is unconditional love thriving
for sure, without the monstrosity of consciousness
it is a safe, new world
a place of vast books
of deserts where truth and dishonesty have no meaning
where iron-red dust clouds drift
filling the craters with proclamations
sealing in those microbes
which one day might become treasonous
it is a globe, a chamber
a new stage with silhouetted mountains
rising high into the black stars
the abyss winning ovation after ovation
and this unconditional mysticism
is a world of dry riverbeds
a place without graves, without monsters...
(iv)
...the years pass through my head
as though I have only ever stumbled through existence
mammon, life, other people
just seemed to somehow get in the way
even now these gorgons
sit at the end of my bed
scraping the heroes from my soul
dragging strangers across my feet
even setting my sheets ablaze
nothing is fair, nothing is clear, of course
but terrible questions still need answers
too often, for example, I have stumbled
over death’s vast permutations
only to be inadvertently silenced
by how sweet is the circulating universe
where my blood behaves like music
like an intravenous, breathless prelude
striding confidently across existence
my scraps, my heroes
enraged only by this unnecessary, unanswerable burning...