The Past is a Dream – it recurs
exactly as thoughts from a dream
as droplets from a cracked clay vase
in a forgotten desert spring –
drips from a rusted waterwheel
in a green abandoned valley.
Pigeons courting on a warehouse
in the golden morning let see
the past through this hectic event –
Always bowing, no matter why –
bowing to each other – honour
of one pigeon to another//
Isn’t it mad how supernovas
burn in incredible vibrance
and leave civilisations there
in their path like a residue
All the material on streets
of red brick trentes glorieuses
is the debris from a power –
Strange things happen to the star corpse
I make tracks out from the city
and hear fireworks in the cool dusk.
Ribs of light. Le Petit Prince walks
alongside me with his flower
When the angels heard an old one wake –
a black supernova, eye crack
deep in the centre of the ‘verse,
trained on earth, and dreaming dead dreams
they made sure Dave got a guitar.
The birds stopped singing for a week,
just to listen, but he was kept
rapt by the way his fingers swept
chords it seemed from inner spaces,
unleafing. He joined a band, and
they did okay. But that was all
just celestial practice for
the time he was needed. The cloud
of darkness was drawing near – felt
in quarrels in the studio,
in breakups in the near future
and the slitherings of money.
The angels watched with bristling wings –
here it came. The moment planned for
so long ago. The room was dark.
At the first solo, the beast wept,
but ploughed the stars for earth still –
at the second, it screamed and tore
apart, raining down. Dave just smiled.