Need I remind you
that I am not the land I live on
I am not the owner
Nor am I the hill over the moor
If you keep on associating me with them
In this cramped cage of a name
I might explode
It’s already bad enough
That we share so much
We all have our own perfectly good names
and even they push it.
I see possibilities arrayed
like a great flagstone path
and each flagstone has moss
and plants grow inbetween
And each flagstone is carved
from stone milled from language
the language of books and films
they are stacked about the path
And the rain and wind-grit
are giving them a hard time
so the titles have ripped off
or faded in the sun – the path
(this may be important)
only appears retroactively
that is – I can only see it
looking over my shoulder.
The path in front of me
looks clean and I am walking
but I don’t mean to be walking
through a mist from the waterfall
Who creates an artificial womb?
Who spends their time in a room
of polished plastic thinking – fantastic
I’ll first make a womb for a sheep
Then later, for other things
like a car or just oil in a sac
then later still, human wombs can dangle
growing the next crop of office workers.
does money do that?
And then automatically flash pictures across
all its wires
so fast that progress happens
And no one has to do
Thinks – first I’ll make a womb for a womb
And then grow wombs from them
but what was the problem again?
Today… what did I do at work..
But someone’s made a womb for a bomb
That’s a little strange
What if it goes off?
We can save with a womb
But carefully, oh so carefully
Don’t get over excited
Womb-born hearts still pump, pump
And bleed nicely
Getting born is just slightly more difficult.
We’ll just straddle the knife edge of getting born
What am I?
My breath is the sea foam’s subtle churning
My breath is the bird’s automatic babbling
My breath is the cloud mist’s clenchings and unclenchings
My breath is the thundering star-wave thaum
My breath is the forking of lightning angles
My breath is the forging of mountain’s face
My breath is the sand’s tumble-glass roar
My voice is the sea whisper slump
My voice is the crow-cry’s arcing
My voice is the cloud gaze recognition
My voice is the thunder’s propogation
My voice is the forging of elements
My voice is the landslide’s destruction of roads
My voice is the pile’s piling angle
My brain is the moon’s towering amazement
My brain is the bird-brain’s response to a jump-scare
My brain is the sun, and the astronomical unit
My brain is the twinkling of nuclear despair
My brain is the electron’s earthquake fizz
My brain is the shading and curve of space-time
My brain is the hourglass curve and falling
What am I?
In the jangled clouds and beams of april
We walked the inhuman boulevards of Paris
We stood on the île and, pestered slyly
We reluctantly left a lock, engraved
With our names. We shouldn’t have.
When arguments began to stick and curdle
When our insults began their moth-flutters in the air
We tried our best to break up, it was no use
We would fight in the night, rot in our sourness and split
Only to wake again in bed, covered in rust.
Something was obviously wrong, the rust stung
Left sores where it touched, got in our crevices
So we first disliked each other more and more
Til pain, pain was the everyday way of things
And the friction so great we ground each other to stubs.
Snapping off one day I managed to run, return to the city
Again I saw the Seine and heard its whispers
I approximated the key’s trajectory, looked:
The water boiled and surged in whirlpool boils
Nothing. I saw nothing but the dirt-flow
But then, sudden, surfacing from a deep sound
It came: whale mass of iron, clumps of lock-keys
Heralding an orange trellis of rustwater currents
The lock-demon, the million locks key-keeper swam
A trembling mass of promise from the murk.
I gazed, terrified, amazed at this dark mound
Of keys. Its breath shook the waters, it rose
And groaned like the under-guts of Paris
Numbered on seismographs as an underground train
I realised then we had made a terrible mistake.
The cold mind of a philosopher
Might freeze love with a snowflake gaze
In the same dull ice that crystallises
Faultline truths on a heap of life.
Til hot dogma deigns them to preach
On politics, bearing confidence of the freeze
But narcissism is neither hot nor frozen
It’s just the mark of a certain childhood.
And poets who take their inspiration
From ‘religious sentiment’s’ gloaming cocktail
That quaintly drinks the soul with ecstasy
Til verses drop off the tongue like gold bricks
Think maybe religion is a knot
Their young life and guardians tied them of
And now its blank mythological verse
Finds acceptance among drunk critical cousins
These tender artists tend to sit
On good old knolls by the zenoic pool
(Far from the muddy estuaries) and swill
Till their daisy heads fall off and rot.