march 2016

 

                                                        (i)

...I am the creature with a million eyes

a million acetylene eyes

each one a bright-cutting conscience

glaring down the void

a light overtaking even death

yet of myself I see nothing

my soul is sealed

a mystic scrap of verbiage

though, I suppose, there is my hapless magic

my confusing sleight-of-hand

that swells and bursts with zeros

therefore there is nothing invisible to me

I can see the passwords of the dead

the generations that never were

the tricks of the killer cells

the unravelling nuclei, the plasma

even the haemorrhaging of ideas

yet, of myself, I can see nothing

my soul is strangely mute

a midnight void

sealed with a million eyes...

 

 

                               (ii)

...each day, eyes wide, I walk on

deeper into a perilous cave

it is my own personal labyrinth

a confused act of terror

which, unknowingly, has become my life

this obsession with forcing back the blindness

of running my tongue along the walls

desperate to express a subterranean birth

my belly swollen with lava

my breasts rising to meet my lover’s mouth

the cave kissing me through the darkness

and so the days passed, one by one

a collage of haphazard tenderness

that soon became the first ten years

then the crumpled tissues beside the bed

scented with fresh semen

became the next

moving, of course, always deeper into my narrowing cave

while above, far across the earth,

humanity threw itself back into the dirt

its pious dementia

like brittle prayers trying to shatter the truth

mensch, hominid, fossil

the passion to live

an obsession turning lethal... 

 

 

 

                                 (iii)

...behind these metamorphic smiles

a disease moves

the hooded moon squeezes through

bullys its drama further into the heart

an anger so intense

so surgical

it forces the blood inside

to rhyme with the words for bastard

these venereal messiahs

who drag their genitals

from mouth to mouth

who use our children’s bodies as pillows

the unclean miasma

that hammers laughter to the walls

that can, even from the air,

distil the fascist sweetness for war

poor child, moon child

in-the-black sand-face-down-child

love did not love you enough

too soon did the hooded moon enter your eyes

these sages and priests

injecting infanticide

the app of apps

the hit of all hits

the cocaine foetus

conqueror of this so virtuous, so stellar world

then again the disease moves

smiles become metamorphic

and the miasma drags

our children by the hair

across the black sand

down to the sea

and on into the unclean drama...

                                         (iv)

...but then why this nothing, nowhere music

this irritable melody

that burns the ground beneath my feet

my blackened, smouldering footprints

all that is left of my existence

pages of spluttering, uninhabited words

holding a queer resonance

an odd, muted testimony

to the final overthrow of risk

the nowhere music an ice-flow

the ice-flow a disturbing emblem

the emblem a black crown

a nowhere fanfare

echoing down the corridors

the odd resonance

history’s terse homeland

an immoveable page set in concrete

all that is left of existence

the will to make some sense of

the crowns, the footprints, the risks...