december 2021

 

                         (i)

 

…do you even have a context

you and your egg-shell deities

 

the brittle pleiades

the pole-and-dog stars

 

such angels of perdition as these

draw black circles in the air

 

mark your skin

with images of the universe

 

and cut away your ears

with fragments of broken glass

 

and so you look for yourself

in the rich innocence of everything

 

rubbing leaves into your eyes

pushing back the grass

 

you, who luxuriously floats

above the rape-seed’s yellow lava

 

hoping someone will notice

that someone will call your name

 

this truly, truly brittle context 

black circle at the point of breaking…

 

 

 

               (ii)

 

…every line of every verse 

is an act of drowning

 

a long, long flight of the blood 

submerging for air

 

this ocean’s unique hunger 

an inspiring mania

 

that repeatedly pulls me down 

into its green, deep glass

 

where faces that once tried to kill me 

now lie on the ocean floor

 

their smiles floating 

like discarded, grey dirt

 

but the deeper I go 

so too the inching pressure grows

 

of an indissoluble darkness

squeezing the mind

 

every page a breath 

every word another desperate gulp of air

 

this endless mania 

this restless calligraphy

 

this long, long flight into uncertainty…

 

 

 

                           (iii)

 

…thousands of times I have given birth

yet strangely I am still in the same place

 

by myself unmoved, snared

and although the sleepless decades have unfolded

 

yet somewhere my vast, obscure lover

is still out there

 

rolling through immensity

her unique sex a deliverance

 

her unique soul unbearable to watch 

the vision of another thousand births

 

as life waits for life

the future snared

 

by itself unmoved

wishing simply for eternity to come

 

and eat through the greasy threads

of this vast umbilicus

 

that covers the eyes

that cries out to all existence

 

the parturition of stone from stone…