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...