february 2021

 

 

                    (i)

 

...here I am writhing on every corner

a gregarious flagellant

 

calling forth the storm

drawing blood from trees

 

my back soaked

by some unrelenting truth

 

by a language stripped of its skin

the interface watching, demanding

 

why these sins

why these veins

 

there is no universe anymore

it’s gone

 

it never was

for how can there be a name

 

for a shadow that never happened

yet the waters break over my back

 

and the data, the trees

are so deep, so mystic

 

my pain becomes my essence

and through the storm

 

comes the maker of my blood...

 

 

 

                       (ii)

 

...I do not trust my face

I see only a motionless subterfuge

 

signs of perjured souls

landscapes of distant eyes

 

approaching then retreating

with the moon at the very centre

 

of this hollow sapience

this very mind not my own

 

for I have come from nowhere

and I am drowning in ambiguity

 

in multitudinous gambits

to just stay alive

 

to juggle this fatuous nonsense

just one more time

 

rolling in the sand

and rising covered in purple stars

 

my face spits its lies at the waves

as the incomprehension rages on

 

pounding the sand

pounding the mind

 

then at last the moon makes her move and leaves

dragging my soul behind...

 

 

 

                       (iii)

 

...true art, they say, is to conceal art

to make it flow pure out of the ground

 

as though whispering to itself

untouch by giants

 

by these messy aeons that keep reminding us

of the knapping of flints

 

of the smelting of children

down into bronze thugs

 

with nothing to do all day

but learn how best to cut

 

their way into each other’s throats

our mercurial, golden children

 

their shadows of stone

this heritage, this poignant degradation

 

that can never just go away

this golden art, this shadow art

 

a path to untouched ground

to those strange places

 

where water has a way

of talking to itself...