Dawn song

Afternoon subsides, water drops still upon your lips neglected, left to trickle to chin, neck, breast:

We came a fair way down the stream where no one swum before, and beneath us is all fanatic rippling green, blades spinning where time hangs loosely, longly – a pendant dew-drop heavy.

Wind punctuates our breaths drawn and locked. Dashes of yellow fall to the earth. Angry once, we surged with boundless fury ending nowhere, never tapering.

Your shadows slip between slanted bracken, slipping, gently slipping. It rains inky grey, drops falling to the stream as tiny jets rise to meet them in embrace.

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poem

Again fractionally more dead
with each goodbye said or unsaid–
this occasion more fearfully than last
time and every single other past
time. I undressed you by the fire
and in darkness touched you
and I knew you never were a liar
and I watched your face flicker
between waking and far darker
places perhaps more true.
There was and is and will be
has been, is now, always will be
has always been, is and always will be
only you.

Soul stripped and tripping through tongued seductions
(this is after all seduction and not rape) – in what order?
stripped and ticking, ticking along the crossing line
the border of them and I: the skull line the jaw line
open mouth and screaming, stripped and teaming
tearing up, hair-ripping exhaust. If everything I say
and do, everything I write is no longer expression of me
alone, but of you and the accumulation of you and
what you have said and of them and what they’ve said,
what is it? spit it out spit it out the trickling of your
thoughts onto my tongue. And the hair is torn out ropy
and dry flung sprawling across the hard ground.
In the debris I search for my self
and find nothing but my shadow, severed from the rest.

 

 

I trade in both the living and the dead.
Ghost words slip from the fist, among
Blades of gravelled grass, among wheat
Scythes, among the hotted heads and
Smell of cold – taste, colour, texture of
Cold.

They lost their shouts to the storm
They are out of tune and out of time

Your language seeps away into mine own –
I saw it with my eyes, mine own two eyes:
That sorrowful noise to ground held down,
Restrained from flight. Guess the rest from
The inflections of muted voice  and the mute
Melancholy landscape.

Here and wandering

and there is no still point, no resting
point at which to meet tight embracing,

tight breathing, enforced lack of air,
immobile joints have no place here

paralysis is confined to the inside
encasing swimming dreams – the pride

yes, stillness is slowly unwinding
only in the inside of this moving thing

The Second Law

Salt of estranging oceans turns to crust
In faded degraded shops and taverns.
They flit eyes from tarmac to steam engines
Lacerating stammers, to those frothing,
burning at the lips – men who have enough
Of love, enough of faith. Enough to grow
Weary. Are you weary? | No longer am I
What once I was. Resurgent desire. Voice
Strained in the belly, chained to the gravel.

(he spoke soft to her on the mountain)

Plastic shuddering blue, the modern cave,
Hallucinations of significance
Bloated – blackly blotted by thin paper.
No longer am I weary. | The grating,
The tears. Must you tear yourself to pieces?
For this? For what? This is it. This is all.
Embossed on the graves of lost sailors
Floating – a kind of Heat Death. This is all.
This heat, this winding, is desire itself.

an imperfect solution it fills you with unparallelled extasy you can do anything like walk on water slow down time before you plummet before you turn to face the unbearable unfilled infinity an infinity made of a rushed patchwork and attempts to improve achieve live and then you jump jump with me then a jump into a black white jungle unknown untasted intangible then the most frightening of places and all you want is to sleep to eat to survive but you laugh since its all you can do and you’ll never be what you want a master of the arts an inventor a god no youre just a crazy little thing incapable of handling whats before and behind you and ahead is even worse nothing can arm you against the future yet its all you have but you cant imagine what it will bring you believe you wont find anything morethan you have had no more strings feelings creation concentric circles vibrating in sympathy its all gone and lost in the timber in debris in unformed memories propped up by quick photo shots that cannot begin to make a thing to make the colour the sentiment the power of those moments that could have been had and were not had

stranger days

That pre-existing gap surrounds us still,
Congealed with ashen blood and tears
Along the skin, around the bone. Milky
Sunsets are greyer by the minute but
A burning vital grey a grey shifting to light
And darkness, wavering, as brook trout in
Unmapped unswum streams. In the desert
Nymphs are locked in glass cages, screaming
Four letter expletives condemned swearing
To total silence – total eternal silence – and a
Heron stands at the edge, still and bead eyed.
We trampled the sands and dunes, panting
Sweating salt urea water blood: all’s the same,
All is different if different means the same but
stranger. Hold my hand as the moon churns
The clouds in the greying night sky and the
Vast space silently drops downwards to slumber.

Zero

Crack in a glass from too much noise and too much
A zero underlined three times – four’s too many
No one knows where the rabbits have gone that
used to play beneath the windows on the meadow
Silhouettes rip across the sight-line, eye-sores and
too much – too much movement.
Where have we come to? A new life unwanted and
un-pursued dragging nails on blackboards whispering
and screaming in the belly and organs of this world
this white dense space that was ours and could have
been and which can no longer be ours.