november 2020

 

                               (i)

 

...and so begins the rise and fall

of all true-born bastards

 

fatherless, motherless

a wild, feral species

 

its genes left out in zero gravity

a place where no-one has a name

 

where everyone

is heir to those psyches

 

still embedded in the uterus

an asteroid, a moon

 

a veil of stones

nets of thinning blood

 

and this clinging imagination

this clinging affiliation to minds

 

left out in zero gravity

toying with bling and memes

 

and that one hope

that one, furious smell of sex

 

that one ancestor

who made bastards of us all...

 

 

 

                   (ii)

 

...within the ocean's insane magnitude

there is an uneasy, aching secret

 

a nerve, a mask

an intensity to exist

 

it is the salt-mother

the emerald mother

 

the one who constantly and deliberately

squeezes these ovarian moons

 

out onto the sea-bed

such vast, white globes of conscience

 

they slowly rise and rise

until they burst at the mind's surface

 

these raw, disturbing colours

this aching magnitude

 

of secrets squeezed for their blood

as though somehow the heart's pulse

 

always belongs somewhere else

mixing and pouring libations

 

over the earth's emerald soul

over these unclean, uneasy hands...

 

 

 

 

                    (iii)

 

...as each egg, each word cracks open

unfailingly I reel backwards

 

away from the exposed chasm

away from these utterances

 

flowing down over my hands

widening the stain

 

clearly they are things that began life

as unintelligible verses

 

clusters of sound fused together

like some cosmic radius

 

cutting with its knife deep into the larynx

staining reality

 

with this immense, dark dementia

perched on my shoulders

 

that is, even now as I write

dropping its egg-shells into my hair

 

it too once crawled from the chasm

its many mouths full of malign abandon

 

of words staining words

the sounds of an everlasting mirage...