october  2016

                            (i)

... if I let the first line belong to no one

not even to itself

thereafter an invasion begins

I mix ice-cream and blood

expletives and wish-bones

and watch as the celebrities begin to sparkle

I then allow the internet to caress my brain

to cushion and covet my sex

and I find my conscience scraped raw

then as I kneel and masturbate in silence

over my head

I find the world’s children slaughtered

I see the skies bleeding history

and the heavens draped with erotic, blockbuster ethics

acts even of vivacious genocide

and the cry of an immense, dark guilt takes my mind

my exhausted, evaporating mind

and the invasion is over...

                         (ii)

...to wish or want

all these muted shadows of our existence

to release every solid word

that was ever uttered

and still declare for truth

is to seize only this life’s obscurity

for we are the audacious fools

who eat the earth

yet never see the incandescence

that once became our scent of sex

we think only with the sun’s thoughts

we speak only its dictated prose

breath for breath

tears for tears

our memories are just the echoes

of this star’s dazzling intercourse

we are its sensual arithmetic

its promiscuous conscience

zeros cloned from nothing

one tongue amidst billions

yelling shadows across space

the truth we seek muted

by our own wishful existence...

                             (iii)

...why, every ten or so days

do I stand, arms wide

awaiting the arrival of this pathological mirage

the erudite cancer

that drags the world’s deep hurt

across my soul

the earth’s seeming joy

wounded beyond repair

or is it just me

frantically searching the debris

my lungs clogged with dust and dead flesh

for although I push hard at the skin

that masks eternity

hoping the munitions and clichés will go away

the pressure I feel returned

only sharpens the ruthless insignificance

that cuts into the mirage

and yet, yet I continue

to bite mouthfuls from the moon

my pathetic, fake sister

whose mask I have become

I am the red deserts of Mars

an anguish which desiccates language

arms wide, waiting, I stand

my ten-day soul like the earth

wounded beyond repair...

                              (iv)

...why are the statue’s tears so old

the lips so bitter

and the rockface so set on mistrust

has the ancient starlight

stolen the rich madness of its mind

or has our digital waste-wonderland

seized the rich madness of ours

whatever it is

the statue is upon us

pushing stones and pins into our eyes

its prophesies clear to no one

its love destined to be a bloodless

spectacular feud between death and defiance

but here we stand

a column of salt

desperately texting the silence

our lips becoming impossible to kiss

cold, bitter and bloodless

our position hardening

and all the words for honesty

frozen to our faces

a tongue of bronze cast with suspicion...