history and recollection.
in & in.
calm and holy.
the young strangers.
Satan's flame shines black, but it can burn,
the angel who had turned away from God
He understands the glory that was light,
light's the first-born, through which everything
is mediated, swiftest and most pure,
each explosion radiates him, radiates him.
Meditating form from formlessness
set the rules and set the wheels in motion.
We must play his game till it is over.
God's a tyrant, vain, conceited, cruel,
so hypocritical we can't believe it,
all merciful he makes our suffering,
all powerful does nothing to relieve it.
Lucifer's the Lord in God's creation
all loss is a mirror of his yearning
even if we transcend separation
Lucifer must suffer, burning.
My baby's like the weather,
she's been sailing
smiles before she cries
she makes it plain
she's a cause of wonder
taking on my cargo
history and recollection
My friends have left me
promises to ring
they have left their promises littered with their cups.
Soon the music will have gone too
I will be alone
with this history and recollection.
in and in
each motion and
each catch and tension,
each release exchanged,
and each movement of your mouth
leads in and in to new depth,
each into each we're plunging and your touch
summons in my heart a gasp of wings
I know I could expire among these flutterings.
calm and holy
They are cracking eggs and hatching,
they are breaking loose and striking matches,
they are speaking like lit rooms into the night,
they are weaving up a wheel,
they are calm, and they are spirits.
The mad are often calm and holy.
the young strangers
I see the young strangers
who come out of nowhere without purpose
their eyes milky with strangeness
gazing at the madness without knowing
I sense their eyes upon me.
I hear the young strangers,
I hear them approaching
not knowing what they need,
having lost all peace,
ejected from the garden into barren waste,
deserving everything in recompense
saying 'We have come into this world at your request'
in wordless voices summoning emotion.
I hear their helpless voices in the sea of being.
I feel the young strangers,
I fear their approaching,
bearing the blood of our desperate loving,
separate vessels containing the cipher,
the terrible seeds of a different life.
The kitten's dead.
I know the kitten's dying....
It's too weak to feed,
it scarcely breathes.
It has tiny ridges on its mouth,
a small, pale tongue,
it's black and white and ginger and its eyes are golden
but it's dying.
When you think somebody killed it
you just can't believe it;
think, somebody hit it
now it will not feed.
It didn't breathe for ages
and I squeezed it and it sort of coughed
it clicks now, when it tries,
I don't think it can swallow
there's another thought I dare not follow;
I think my daughter killed it in her make-believe.
I tried to give it milk that I had watered,
showed it to it's mother, we discussed it,
she licked and mewed and purred and tried to carry it and dropped it,
then it squeaked,
I thought my eyes would burst, I don't know what,
I called on God, but God was somewhere else;
that will have been her last cry when she dies.
I know she's dying by the way she lies.
After it had coughed it started crawling.
I thought that it might live
but it was running,
trying to escape what was already,
moving feeble legs that carried pain.
That was a worse death, somehow, forced to live again
a brief eternity of useless suffering.
We carry death inside us
and we carry slaughter.
The rage I bear within me fills my daughter.
I tried to give her milk that I had watered;
she is far more like me than I thought her.
Tulips offer up red cups of sunlight,
men prepare their lawnmowers for war.
Honeysuckle bursts its nipples into flower,
drifts of cherry blossom clot the gutters,
battle's joined again,
the suburbs rumble,
Nature's unsubdued between the paving-stones.
With vegetable patience,
now she tries
new, faster weeds,
Words are emptied, hollow with their lack,
the world's not what it was, nor what it is;
successive definitions slither back,
the place we fell from was a place like this.
Whatever we define we have to blur.
Could there be something solid, guaranteed,
between our quarantine and our desires ?
Whatever we invent we come to need,
our metaphors outlast us, make us liars;
the place we fell from is a place we never were.
There is a sea of dreams on which we float
(undercurrents tugging at our toes)
you may think this a cage and not a boat
but there is more to it than you suppose
the picture's wrong, and this is what it shows :
I quiver at each pulsing of your throat.
All the stored-up bleatings of my heart
shored up in a mirror wall of thought
here belatedly displaced in 'art'
which, underneath the tawdry sugar coat
are no more than the dreams in which I'm caught
tricked up in games to make you think I'm smart.
(Still there is something more, if not above
where I engage my labour with my love.)
She's a woman. Smoke coils in her hair.
She flashes like a lighthouse in a fog
illuminating all and everywhere,
drinking like a drain, laughs like a dog,
her long white neck snakes back, she barks the joke,
her eyes shine and she pierces the air
eliminating distance at a stroke.
I'm sick of sitting in the cold all night
she fills a room with warmth and glistening
a fuzzy laser, incoherent light,
well, she might strike a spark from anything.
If she's a story, I am listening,
she animates her story from within.
She's a woman.....how could I begin ?......
....as dark as flame. More beautiful than sin.
She sleeps with all my friends. That must be nice.
I like them too. I like her far too much.
She's sharp and bright and wild and brave and kind
but I am out of favour, out of touch,
out of luck and judgment, out of mind,
and I am out of reach of good advice.
(The proverb reads 'Once bitten, bitten twice.')
Our lives are litanies of broken threads
we tried to tie our dreams in. They've no price,
they have no purchase and no currency,
they pass among us, ghosts among the dead
illuminating us with fantasy.
That's how it starts, perhaps that's how it ends:
I dream of her, she sleeps with all my friends.
Up here we wash on a rota,
one leg this week in the tepid water;
the air's cut off at nine
and we all practise deep forms of oblivion
until the grey dawn calls us,
with solid lumps of ice caked in our beards.
Ice forms on the surface of our tea
as we sip agonising breakfasts
in our clogs
the televisions raging
and our rib-caged dogs
and drink bitter,
long whelped out of whimpering.
The big winds swills and whispers in my wings
fills my swirling sails,
unfurls my flags.
I am all spirit
and the breath draws on.
You glimpse me in your loved ones,
now and then
some object of desire might simulate
a momentary flutter of my presencing;
one glistening feather.....
I am, above all, an imaginary force,
fleeting, veiled, hinted by
the far glitter of a window into nowhere.