december 2016

                                   (i)

...is it not right to test

the strength of every halleluiah

to wonder wherefore and why

these millimetres of naked jelly

this incessant cortex

have gone and inseminated the sun

seen its grave

and moved on to touch greater suns

why then does this vast, gloomy charm

still burn in my throat

twist my back

and thread its wherefore-dreams through my eyes

it is Saturn again, yelling at me

conjuring his benign infernos

we, he says

we are the shadows of comets

fragments of children chasing life

seedlings destined to spice

the one last sexual narrative

the last, last supper

a breathless farewell to all halleluiahs...

 

 

 

                    (ii)

...last night the deep earth ceased to spin

and this morning the sun did not rise

instead the horizon itself

buckled and threw high over our heads

a glowing, limitless canopy of faces

each and every one of which

beamed treachery

it was a grim, unforgettable mosaic

pieced together with the icy love of the narcissist

no wonder the earth had stopped spinning

there was, it seemed to say, no time left

for solidarity with so many useless strangers

best to let one half of the unseen world

boil away into space

for why should human love even pretend to exist

in this nondescript corner of nowhere

it is a strange treasure

as meaningless as it is meaningful

a beacon, an urge to kiss the darkness around us

to expiate the darkness within

love, the only signature of humankind

the only edict ever written

to demand the sun keeps on rising...

                               (iii)

...the sound of the rain falls through my mind

and immediately I am in chains

manacled once again to this old, filthy leviathan

this angel, this tormenting methuselah

who squats down before me

and opens her little bag of mirrors

swallows dog faeces

and waits for inspiration

immediately I panic

because although my heart

wants avidly to cut into the infinite

when I try to speak

my mouth becomes the stinking

leechy mouth before me

and my ears begin to leak

 fat, greasy jingles

desperately I throw the mirrors into disarray

and shun the faeces

but the rain defiantly squats in my head

refusing to let go of its immortality

I am therefore bound

by the crime of too much and too little

fragmented insight

a torment like no other

my words are my chains

and this imprisonment is my freedom...

                       (iv)

...the beginning of prejudice starts in a mirror

the one and only place

the future can stare back at us

as the needle draws blood from the arm

the truth’s fatal certainty

that the bite of passion is finally over

that the hard, forbidding logic of eternity has arrived

to oil our dry sex

our love overrun

by the slow, strong bitterness of age

the needle now draining prejudice from the heart

spilling yet another million years across the floor

the civilised fascism of simply doing nothing

because the sun is out

and could go viral at any moment

another of truth’s fatal certainties

that even if fraternity is over

logic must in heaven as it must on earth

reign supreme

before the mirror finally slips from reach...

 

 

 

                                  (v)

...today, as everyday, I will remain the black sun

the squalid outlier that rises

trying to filter my life from the universe

to disentangle my soul’s meticulous code

from all the tricks and creeds and junk distractions

that rhyme death with immunity

but to reach any semblance of myself

I first must speak in tongues

to the solitude around me

the fly struggling in a web

the skin peeling from my feet

the jets bonded to the sky

these are all conspiracies

patterns in the nameless, black dust

that cloaks the universe with zeros

for although I have loved the man in woman

and the woman in man

I have loved my own mystery far more

the squalid sun

the web bonded to the sky

my solitude

always struggling

 

to disentangle dust from dust...

 

 

 

                         (vi)

...suppose it needed only strength

could I really stop the wind’s fantasies

the chiming shadows

and the colours feeding on my eyes

it is always too late to pause a life

especially when there are thousands of images of yourself

rising from a cliff

and the free air simply cannot hold nor see

the creative pain

that accelerates you upwards

crushing and harvesting your body

a mix of merciless harmonies

pressed hard against your throat

and yet when all these spectres take my hand

and slide their stylus between my fingers

I know there is nothing more

no premeditated ecstasy behind this wilderness

which bears my name

just the nightmares feeding in the shade

nervously waiting for their turn

to take off into the wind...