april 2016

                                        (i)

...one night an entire planet

tumbled its mass through my head

 

trashing, as it went, my weightless blood

angels ran across my face

tearing themselves to pieces

one swallowed its own hands

another ran over

and dropped an embryo into my mouth

I was, it seemed, at the centre of some maligned creation

an organelle, a codon, a virus

primed to track the human heart

to colonise the imagination

with yet another new, epic paradise

evil in high-definition

then no-one, I suppose, could miss

these angels disintegrating

pixel by pixel

the last moments of solitude

leaving my weightless body

the brave unity of reason

 

suddenly falling apart

expiring beneath the blinding smoke...

 

 

                                                (ii)

...I write for no-one but the lonely eye

the quiet, lawless gremlin beneath my face

for only he knows of the frail palimpsest

the inky skin of the mastermind

my parchment self

a farce, an agony

announcing the x and the y of life

these dim, flat halleluiahs

this mind that rises only when it sleeps

a nagging, physical melancholy

that is never at rest

that is always erupting

always trying to trawl my bones

for yet more irrepressible clarity

the one, indivisible agony

the explosive stealth of the mastermind

my inky farce

a drama reaching out to test

the x and the y

that rise and rise and never rest

this delirious understanding that seems to come alive

the very moment it dies...

 

 

                                        (iii)

...only fire should give birth to words

for only with words can there be the birth of fire

of children ablaze with the immensity of themselves

untamed, wilful, irreverent

their unread verses littering the cosmos

a world tempting inspiration

inspiration tempting the world

a lure to again re-write creation

with a knife that cuts as it unites

left with right, black with white

this erudite, reckless inferno

resonating with the insights of lunatics

those ivory-eyed princes

left masturbating outside in the unlit streets

their unread hearts littering the cosmos

a fire that quenches fire

and the irreverent generations continue to sing

untamed by their immensity

a song sung in silence

with words unable to be words...

                                               (iv)

...every day there is – and always has been – this fight

this fixed, cold appointment

waiting at the foot of my bed

an unconscious, iron cauldron

that pretends to breathe

music and sunlight

the blue fingers closing around my ankles

ready at any moment

to pull my implacable mind

down across the sheets

deep into the waving arms

a sleep that bites itself in the mirror

a lens which quietly dwarfs the universe

the unconscious iron pretending to breathe

birdsong and sonnets

and the erotic certainty of death

the insufficient truth of my own reflection

in the abyss behind the mirror

in the mirror behind the abyss...

                                         (v)

...we have always powered the Sun’s naivety

straightened its path

turned ice into innocence

and picked its atoms from our eyes

and yet we are still not sure what we are

men threaded along a wire

our smiles unravelling time

our blue teeth gleaming with data

this proud, new hunger to beatify autocracy

the online gestapo

recycling loyalty and torture

and even though we are still not sure

we double-click

just to ejaculate into strangers

innocence into ice

ice into innocence

this monstrous thirst for precision

another digital vacuum

the sunlight’s surgical path

blurring even more the outlines

 

of this, our last, imperfect mystery...