march 2021 (i) - (iv)

                           march 2021




...once, long ago, as I chiselled verse

into this earth’s black face


a shimmering tongue

of what appeared to be some irresistible sanity


suddenly poured from the clefts in the rock

the mountain, I saw, had begun to uncoil


and a seam of molten evil

congealed about my wrists


but the more I tried to hammer

the more my verses fell apart


was it love or was it hate

had I tapped into affection


only to expose a Gorgon

whose vulva was lined with teeth


it was, to be sure, an hypnotic confusion

where I became the plaything of morality


an effigy with verses strung around my neck

trying to rescue fragments of myself


my hands jammed into the mountain’s open sides

but the more I searched


the more of myself I lost

and the stronger the mountain became...




...who is that someone

who pulls flowers from the air


who turns this breastmilk into fire

who extracts even children from this earth’s soil


only to feed them to the streets

someone, somewhere is to blame


because often there is hope

because always there is despair


so where then has that licence

that transcendence gone


which once kept us alive

and able-minded enough


to see the universe as a language

able to pull roses from the sky


as breasts

dripping milk into the mouths


of so many crushed children

whose crime then is this


whose guilt is it

this needy transcendence


to say I am that someone

I am that somewhere...





...the opal world, the amethyst world

seeds in the coldest dark


but the doors are closed

the mind small


sealed by hunger

by the sperm's mad eyes


this rapacious glitz

this obscene coinage


can life really unfreeze the truth

when there is no such thing


for the door is closed

and the dereliction enormous


opals fall from the lips

'the coldest of seeds'


words driven by darkness

by the world rising


through the open door

this amethyst mind


this threshold mind

rising to what none have seen before...



                      (iv), in my head, I stand

at the foot of a vast, hungry mountain


a cathedral crushing me with stillness

the quiet at the end of death


the quiet of a statue 

reaching out from the sheer face


whose only desire

is to fill my throat with sand


and turn my mouth to stone

this muted, passionate morphing


this craving that rises up through my eyes

and fills my body with all its blood


because, even at the end of death

love has no gender


and here, here crumbling between my hands

is the impenetrable humanity of all things


a sisterhood

a brotherhood with the rockface


its passion, its hunger for silence

flowing over the polished skin


cutting infinity into the statue’s lips...