|
|
 |
Index |
|
|
Part 11.)i. Jack the Ripper honour no one with a glance, overflowing with the living & the dead, the bridge, the river, tier upon tier raised on the stench of disease in the catacombs, vaults & sewers, the living follow the dead through a tunnel into exodus & only one man saw in the hour the sunken city resuscitated into monstrous metropolis, its veins & arches an underworld network, Teiresias reborn as a vampire in a population, an epidemic of troglodytes, city over the mountains, London's falling Towers of Babylon, broken images & babble. ii. Acrobat. His eye rolled heavenward & the gods looked down & laughed & the moon looked down & mocked & the sun looked down in a hat & the sky rocked a lullaby in the tree tops & his eye rolled downward where myriad stars drowned where the lights went out & the roar & silence grew hard as he walked tip toe the tight rope with no hands hung between trapeze splits. iii. Autumn. i'm off bird spotting because birds have heart attacks & drop from the sky but find instead fly agaric seventeenth of september. picking blackberries draws blood ripe juice black & red mixes from a thorn. unseen september's moon wanes buried in vermilion in a blazed bird's wing iv. Dandelion Ditch Haiku. day looks like a ditch, dandelions beguile deceitful smiles, soul tempters votive to impossible secrets, they stay to insist, as though knoll hedgerows oér hill & far away led from present fray. yet i would weep at what you would have me believe, yet not to conceive, ditch dandelion show, tho your promised coronae funeral this berth. this dearth by ditch where i find you wild in spring inviting nothing in the sparkling sun, sarcophagus & flagstone broken to ruin speaking of captive hour flower tempted hearts, robbed & beguiled. v. Lunas over white dunes, on shimmering lagoons, a flamingo wings. water sky, glass lake, perfumes, colours, vortice winds cadence in cascade dust drops into trickled light. vi. Hay Fever red blades harvest thresh yellow hay fever pollen misting out summer already grey tomorrow´s rain summer seems like autumn. vii. Kao Tao rides a rocking chair red sails in the sunset boater in the rye dark wings overhead under tow cranes´ barbed flight piercing light poles. xiii. Tanka monk in beggar's rags meticulously copies in ink word for word in order not to forget as our feet tread over him ix. Sierra Norte de Madrid high window skyline: mountain darkness mixes in city light´s distance. from the mountain´s edge purple clouds sail by a high window wind rattles. purple cloud spectrum blacks out in a high window, now only the wind. x. skylines. (i) winter combines light: familiar scenery parts in difference. dormant landscapes lay slumbering dreaming beneath the window´s skyline. obscure over images summer lifted only to dazzle. xi. skylines. (ii) way of the white clouds: snow melts on distant mountains, so seem the white clouds. no clouds move, below a city spellbound under vermilion streak. sounds invisible, as if bird´s wing could break through the sound barrier. xii. Tankai. coin in a fountain: a splash, pool ripples, coin sinks, there is no sound chink. afference & efference drawn to stillness, the coin blinks. coin in a fountain: it gleams beyond reach for alms, children´s arms refract. cascadence is the cadence, airborne to water´s silence. coin in a fountain: i stare down to the bottom, face upon water. the hand that spun the coin is the sound of one hand clapping. xiii. Summer Blue. Soft ephemeral effulgence on a hung & sultry summer Wild herbage breaks where road builders build roads on dreams The rituals of existence fly by in caricature in the wink of an eye. Horizons break on words which neither tell the day that more than words fades.  |
Back to top
|
|
Part 22.) Nyx. xiv. Elephant Boy. Liquid eyes darker than starless night Ghosts touch you even in arid winds, In eternal crowds & deserts where herds Trod the rubble plains. In city ruins In your beaten beggar eyes helpless Before the fated scene. The nothing that Has not already been nor outlasts not As spirit or beast, a heart made human. To taste that kiss, a right to innocence & near tenderness, to yield to The decisiveness of birth & death, As near eternity as less than a moment, lost. xv. Horizon News. Nobody wants to say New Millennium Got off in a bad way. No sugar for the coolies, Government shortage of oil, To pay or not to pay. But O brave new world In the name of your host et al Your legacy's crashed. xvi. Hunter’s Moon at a stroke the accident of power watching cars go by everything committed to the balance of understanding communication with the mysteries of life – whizzz helpless dreams on the battlefield of time the fallen & the slain shoals of fire fly light in alchemical equation an intricate complexity to surreal music outside from fresco to pastiche clouds to stains down the corridors of time a poisonous kiss death in the canvass music in still life only the ritual remains on the waves of moirai written with even the unwritten in sign of the time in eternal return in the mirror of origins in the heart of the labyrinth time is a harp its music trapped between mute strings ii. autumn & the blackberry’s dropsy reek of undergrowth fetid rank dank as dead winter sets in sinister with it’s shadow a stranger at the door knocking memory is a place knocking existence its cage iii. time on the shore where memory laps in the bay to enter silhouetted in the door the fates dance the dice of chance & you must embrace the infinite unresolved face moon light through the bars on the ninth wave the arisen minotaur eros unbound under the hunter’s moon xvii. Lagoon. i should go on down the dales to the palace of rhiannon by the caers, those misty isles you see, as though at sea. a place of memory, the sidhi, under the silver moon's starry wheel of heaven. a myriad jewel, a peacock's fan, a tiara on a diadem arisen in the slivered shimmering night. but here at the lagoon are peril, dread & doom. a frond more perfect than the abysm, waters colder, darker than the light, where not even the moon appears to shift its depths, wherein sky shivers. embraced in a silver circle alone, an oracle more brittle than bone or wind lashed skin naked drawn, all who enter here none return. xviii. Blue Moon The blue moon behind the window is an illusion, as is the silver sphere that enters upon its drawn curtain to this skeleton laid upon a bedding & unfolds a zodiac on the ceiling. a silver wheel spiralling down apex pyramiding crown quarters demiurge serpentine maws open the northern crown to isle of Avalon. on the barge of ariadne’s diadem you come to the white lady cerridwen. walk the glittering palace of rhiannon to fields elysian, mists of caer arianrhod, into metamorphosis of a dragon god, where the cyclopean shaman appears demiurge sun in a single serpent eye. in three directions the crane fly in cheveron across the sky & dragons like flamingos soar lagoons from shore to shore, spheres of sailing hedge row isles quivering in mirror mirages. it seems pterodactyls in the stars leap through the mind’s eye, to shatter even the mirror glass that contains so many lies, so many impossible desires, a near cascadence of all possibilities, trapped, enclosed, sealed to fall still hidden into a possible world. xix. Nyx (Mother of Darkness) human being, your lives, so little for your tragedies so great, ravelled in the shrouds of nyx & fatal twins thantos & hypnosis, where ever lost you yet acclaim if not second to none, the next best. to what mocking echo, pitiful fall your triumphant aspirations, but soft ye now, nyx whispers in hypnosis’s ear that morphus appear on the waters of the night. where the architect of tomorrow usurps no more what potion morphus drops upon an eyelid. or what monster might rear or nightmare demeter in the womb of night, nyx her embrace suckled on each breast, born of the serpent, twins of the beast or how she may come or what chariot, yet the clarion or what hour! xx. Without a City Wall. on bridle hill, on a green day far away, the farmyard gate was the fen den raided. afterwards came the sweet meadow downs ridden, where the raven´s free. & the wild flower´s jewel. & there´s no gem in the sky in the garden cut & coombed aligned with the stars to the black forest without. where you dream of a balloon, as crests of helmet equestrian glint with the invisible fly at night hunter hawk bomber & the forest goes on like a christmas tree. until the bells hoarse with tolling choke on winter´s frost & the doors may now be opened to bury the dead. xxi. Nobody was There. And nobody was there In the morning air But I felt dawn's pain Falling down like manna rain. As I walked out, I walked out with not a soul about, But I thought I heard Warbles from a bird Which went rippling through my hair, But nobody was there. Flesh's corporeal In what it can feel But no news at all, In the Order of it All, And nobody was there My poem to care. My experience Of omniscience Infintisimal, In the Order of it All. As the bird's song rare, Where nobody was there, So far and near, To a somebody here. xxii. Yes & No. flick a book's pages through unborn between the lines, where phantoms follow you & the dead ahead wait, what supports yourself's time but the flick of a page, yes & no at the window & scars on the horizon. in the mirage lies the memory with the dream space in between yes & no at the window. xxiii. Lady of the Lamp. In soft silt sheen, a luminous vacuous sphere, sightless she hangs cauled in white lace her veiled intent of innocence. A faceless bubble of glass, a beacon without a shore, a satellite from outer space she over floats the floor. Phantom nun, moon to her deathless night, bland lamplight her zombie kiss, a rustle, dry scratch soft on the face & darkness in night´s draperies, where the cobwebs of her shawls crawl in white lace across the walls. xxiv. The Dead* his fingers part the window's lace. night snowflakes, frozen stars suspend a receding plain on watery horizons, where deities beyond reach beckon, where eternity is kept by its shadow. a tree bends cracked twigs in shimmering lamplight, guardian of the dead & living. she lies white & weeping on the bed. he touches the ice-splintered glass & the receding plain returns from the dead to thrust into his heart the pain & confusion of the living . he hears her whisper his name, who died so long ago for love of her, so young, who could not bear to live on for lack of sight of her from his window, after she'd gone. it was love, not as he, who knows only sudden turmoil rend, as she weeps for the living & the dead. after James Joyce the film The Dead starring Anjelica Houston xxv. Genesis. when i will be in paradise with you, the serpent shall entwine us in embrace, our apple to core shall be bitten through & genesis the beatific face under weeping willow of orpheus & honey kiss of sweet ambrosia in the memory mists of eleusis, flesh on flesh, light on light, i your lover. when i will be in paradise with you, the music from my heart´s harp in eden´s garden shall anoint in love´s fervour true every flower, every tree to gladden with your names & open time´s sacred womb, born risen to paradise from earth´s tomb. xxvi. Anne Boleyn. (in homage to Thomas Wyatt, who witnessed, as a prisoner of the tower for other displeasures, her execution through the gratings) that i should know you sorrow blame not my lute* now this is the moon´s morrow, now that i am smitten my heart´s love stolen nor kiss of mine so fallen the gloaming glamour gone. blame not my lute that still to the moon strings song to all his loves who´ve flown & plays to the moon alone blame not my lute. * CXV Devonshire Manuscript. |
| Back to top |
|
|
Part 33.) The Wake. xxvii. The Miller´s Woodland. We crossed meer at weir into the shires: many have died on the borders beneath these now mast winds of silt & sedge that haunt allotments laid a ploughman's cage. Day after day lessens in woodland´s green unwinding screen wearing not its anointed crown that harvested charcoal, salt, brimstone for ore. Timber henge that fenced no fen down for mead nor hemp & wicker by meer´s brook. What spoils then have fallen to petty kings proud & tyrannous, their wars & the ruin ridings where no mill grinds beside the weir?* * where no bird sings. La Belle Dans Sans Merci. J Keats. xxviii. White Sea Horse.* On what symphony of sea, It appears, out of what time, What ancient icon of antique lore, Came the white sea horse To this island shore, a wave crest. A light that receded into spray, A presence of other world Ridden over time's threshold Still yet to be tomorrow dawns, Those ephemeral regions created Long before that rule our destinies. White sea horse, who returns to be & yet to be, primordial rhythm, Ebb & flow in a dream as white as The moon, wild search sea child Mixed with the harvest of the sea. *After: White Deer. Jorge Luis Borges. xxix. Least Assuages. enough no more, tis not as sweet as before the vine has poisoned into bitterness the simple madness of john clare the poor & all the fears of all the years come home to roost, the lads who went to war, said the joker kindly to king lear & slain the jabberwocky no more roars sings suibhne sweetly from treetops clear, so soft ye now nymph of thy orison, john clare the poor knew he was lord byron. xxx. Once Upon a Time The children used to play under every window way that let out on the day because from every window cast a spell, a charm, a song that was known to everyone, where the children used to play, once upon a time. & then one day it went away for nearly all & everyone until remained only an old little lady in her window of flowers, her cottage bowers & fairy hours who knew all the stories to tell who kept all the secrets well where the children used to play. & then one day she went away away for nearly all & every one who remembered once upon a time there was an old little lady in a window of flowers, where the children used to play. xxxi. Box Kite. Dead trees high line the sky. Sheer spears bare on The shoulder of the mountain Side & perched aloft, The box kite. A totem, who guards The winding mountain Pass of those who dare To travel there. Its thunderous fall, A hurled thunder bolt. The rock split. The masque effaced. The token day taught. xxxii. Slum Man i'm a slum dweller man, catch me if you can, i'm a germinated killer man. send in the clean up squadron, i'm a potential pest on the fringe of civilisation urban flush me out of the hole i'm in, i'm your slum dweller killer man dark & dangerous. send in your clean up men, see my shanty shadow slip & run, the gauntlet of your gun. xxxiii. Parque Quintana. Feb 3rd. The waxed moon tilts her face like a bird in flight at incredible height. The plaza´s ferns bend like crooked witches sniffing under passers by. Beneath wrapped up stars futile cries of battle subside from tumult Risen to acclaim new glories from horizons never to be born on the moon´s orisons. xxxiv. Black Moor black the moor closes in to nightmare´s arising. feet tramp ground trodden on mysteries´ remains but memories´stolen by life´s strife´s stricken as the sky is fading. the yellow crackle corn grass broken, hedgegrown, twigs bracken nesting in bramble bush thorn; yellow gorse of spring sprung spring time in death day evening. across plains come bay rowan galloping mares & stallions. silence the scream in distant drowning highway din, human insane what´s your theme? then highway dream headlight night on beam him into thing, into shadow nothing & black the moor closes in. xxxv. High Coombs. it matters not how bright the day is, it´ll be no more than a tale. a rainbow in my window often repeats as a small miracle. clouds kiss like classical lovers framed on canvass & disperse pretending innocence, remorseless, relentless, as though they´d wanted to erase the poetry they´d written with an endless substitution. xxxvi. Telegraph Boy it makes you afraid to see the telegraph boy, telegraph boy, you didn´t want to see him, you see, the telegraph boy, it meant bad news, bad news the queens shilling, the press gang willing, he doesn´t like the trenches, in the stench of death amaze at bombardment, you´re under age in burning flesh, smell of man. never kissed a girl, as you went over the top to carnage with the same shadows that stop in the ground as the gun goes bang you pop & the sky finally falls down, in the blast of the force you a voice, a horse, a horse, a kingdom for a horse. xxxvii. The Swamp Recovered from her sickness like a sick calf shakes on the morn. Before even the ape became human She'd transformed her womb, given birth to new incubation Metamorphosis of the dragon fly, came we human on the crane's wing to a shore with a word hoard, where the lilies set sail to the sea before the angels were born. Who fell from the stars to skies long after we'd left those starry isles as memories on waters, which we once trod beyond these ruins & their stars, where labyrinths run to sewers. xxxviii. The Battle of the Ancient Misanthrope. Epilogue. [excerpt from the battle of the ancient misanthrope act v scene ii] on the high pass track down at out post twilight soaks mist on the borders i make it to the rendezvous with a few scratches but still a refugee with only time to hitch in & let you know i'm sorry on the ridge that i got here where you wait in silent state give me your hand if we be friends* though we know it's late & as i leave my heart feels clean the pain our next rendezvous if disaster strikes again on the pass or across the plains on the high borders & when i go on dark through the dusk & the jagged sky the stranger i pass will not know i've been nor come from the out post on the high pass. xxxix. The Wake. Chucked back sack dropped slack ogre lumbers strapped with a broken chimney stack top hat brimmed off flip flap jacket bric brac, kettles, scuttles, cow bell clusters, toes out of shoe, pantaloons, a wobbled girth of swaying reams, streamers that seem to bear that enormous frame, as it booms across the plains, a skating whirlwind of sonority, as if to dump it all, disseminate into the emanations' multiple hues, wrapped in a pretty rainbow box labelled to be opened on arrival later, in a manner of speech, being off to the land of no return but see that mighty stride vast as the plains, deltas & plateaux, galumping in the distance on the wide rim after the clanging, clattering & dust of moths singing in the flames. xxxv. The Battle of the Ancient Misanthrope. King Kat's Speech* [excerpt from the battle of the ancient misanthrope. act i scene i ] it gets darker for the winter dashed sunday walker to the children the nasty little people on the street asking you the time their clockwork brains in the waterworks working out where the electricity works as you loom into view like a gate crasher as the food of love plays on* between their ear phones where they block your way question your right to existence & their right to take it away but not as orphans their Piccadilly gang war grin teeth & claws as they dare you come over & tell them to tell their folks they spoke with the king of cats as you strut one foot back in the track & beg the shadow reach between you & the little people the nasty dangerous aggressive silly little people peeping out their drains like rats because time's a thief & you dont mind wasting a thief. |
