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...