december 2018

                    (i)

...what, in that case, are we to make

of these strange, burning kaleidoscopes

with their hearts and contradictions

dotted about the sky

their immense veins overflowing

freezing out every hint of mercy

are they epicentres, fewtrils

bags, items in a window

just what are we to make

of these capillaries teeming with light

we read the spectra

yet see only rhetoric

we spin the codes

yet only grasp martyrdom

we estimate, anticipate, calculate

yet fate still spits into our eyes like a snake

these burning contradictions

these strange globules of light

that blaze without mercy

that teem with the colours of forever...

 

 

                            (ii)

...eternity is derelict, the dead voice called

and so are you

beneath your fingernails

I can already see scraps of destitution

so stay away

this place exists only in whispers

I am the dark breath of anguish

the torn pericardium

the void that clearly never began

yet somehow learnt to conjugate a verb

learn then to rejoice beyond yourself

for happiness always comes to push the earth on its way

it floats like a high veil above the oceans

reminding mankind of the risks

it is a hazardous love

an anguish that could break existence

so come, clean your fingernails

and let your hands dig freely

into the soft, white sands

the place of whispers

of far, far too many whispers...

 

 

                  (iii)

...here, on this new, tempting planet

only the rocks debate justice

only the black sands grasp loyalty

and only on these deep red escarpments

is unconditional love thriving

for sure, without the monstrosity of consciousness

it is a safe, new world

a place of vast books

of deserts where truth and dishonesty have no meaning

where iron-red dust clouds drift

filling the craters with proclamations

sealing in those microbes

which one day might become treasonous

it is a globe, a chamber

a new stage with silhouetted mountains

rising high into the black stars

the abyss winning ovation after ovation

and this unconditional mysticism

is a world of dry riverbeds

a place without graves, without monsters...

 

 

 

                             (iv)

...the years pass through my head

as though I have only ever stumbled through existence

mammon, life, other people

just seemed to somehow get in the way

even now these gorgons

sit at the end of my bed

scraping the heroes from my soul

dragging strangers across my feet

even setting my sheets ablaze

nothing is fair, nothing is clear, of course

but terrible questions still need answers

too often, for example, I have stumbled

over death’s vast permutations

only to be inadvertently silenced

by how sweet is the circulating universe

where my blood behaves like music

like an intravenous, breathless prelude

striding confidently across existence

my scraps, my heroes

enraged only by this unnecessary, unanswerable burning...