december 2020




...are there no answers, no reasons

for this terrifying music


for this black eucharist

lying on your tongue


or the smouldering horizon

approaching your feet


no, no answers, no reasons

just a wild, delirious pirouette


out along the cliff-edge

tomorrow already confused with tomorrow


this pitiless vertigo

pushing against your eyes


begging you to kiss

the smouldering terror


of this unspeakable

unanswerable ballardry


lying at your feet

the tongue of black steel


the only weapon with

no reasons, no answers...






...stay away, stay back or risk

the world’s mistaken touch


the feel of bullets

as they pass slowly through your heart


through into that other earth

the human void


the human soil

with its mortifying cascades


its intense solitudes

its suns and viruses


that quietly track your eyes

quietly reconstitute your flesh


and then move on, replete

encoded, safe


so, lest you fall, step back

because the breath is upon you


of an unremitting universe

its passion for zeros


passing slowly through your body

this leviathan which has never once closed its eyes...







...supposing I had reached out

to some beckoning aesthetic


would I still have wept

for that bird, its feathers ripped out


and all but its head crushed into the road

would I still have heard


that unforgettable, unforgivable

laugh of the deus ex machina


echoing between the hills

this cruel sound of a galaxy


being dragged up over the skyline

its gemstone darkness rising


and glittering with blood

and if I had reached out


for some uncommon justice

would I still have seen


the birth of these stars as my birth

or the killing of that bird as my killing


so what then is it that beckons

what is it in me that weeps...





...tempt the muse only with that which hurts

reveal only those invisible oceans


that have always wrapped

the earth about the soul


those indelible suspicions

that somewhere, something is not right


this so-called mellifluous sanity

with its trick of disappearing


beyond the reach of memory

beyond that point of focus


where what is truly immemorial

always, always hurts


the waiting muse, the watching muse

curious to see who will be next 


to wrap the earth

in some inexplicable terror


these specimens, these traces, these meteors

that prove something, somewhere is poised


to tempt the mind

to make even the stones confess...




                        (v) this face, this countenance not a silvered mask

a paradise of maybes


an alloy so brightly polished

the drama is blinding


the looks so telling

that the metallic veins


of the everyman shine

with fluorescent blood


brilliant with birth

brilliant with imaginary words


these counterfeit realities

this dance of maybes


this simultaneous brilliance

it is all a masquerade that tells us


we are not truly born

until our mothers die


until the scythe moves

and perhaps not even then


it is the cavernous face

the open stage for just one life


just one drama of little or no consequence...