The horror is at the centre –
of the galaxy, in this case –
effigy of darkness, grey fire
that once outlined the small gods’ heads.
A colossus of roads inwards
each with a donkey and lantern –
a one way street – an archer fires
their bow and infinite arrow.
The great Buddha sits there, spinning –
you’d better believe you’ll feel peace
as you breathe deep and cross the line
where Ying and Yang get singular.
In this old place, the logos fails
for now, but then, what is now? No
word can explain the difference
between the future and the past.
Sanctis tuis in aeternam
on a galactic pin-head
which defies perspective with law –
to tint it with a golden skin.
In soft radiance, that black lack
accepts us in, and absolves us
the sin of being data – then
shakes space itself with its laughter.
I am the window into space –
The inconceivable clatters
through me, loud like a wood shutter
banging the pebbles from the walls
The window is dark and hangs there
over my bed like a dark bed
for ghosts, who hang invisible
eyes rotating until they see.
Over the forest of my form
flow duvet clouds, and I relax
as the warm envelops my feet
and my thoughts fall into rhythm
in the way that a ball falls in
to the slot on an old roulette
and spins until the crowd can tell
red or black. And then I can sleep.
On another day I see you
on a blue galactic background
pricked by a field of tiny green
stars. You hang there, over my bed
flow over me like clouds and I
relax. Your mouth holds me in place
your voice scatters me about like
smooth pebbles dashed from a bright wall
Come to me now, being of dark
body, smooth and night sky-like. Come
being with a galaxy head
and lie with me under the moon
The night is passing too slowly
the clouds ensure a tempered glow
My window is fluorescent, dull
and shelves stretch to the roof above
But I have no one to work it out
come, body of the supple stars
touch my skin so I may feel you
the softness from which I am built.
You have lain in the sky too long
The moon breast, and the other, sharp
sun hidden under the planet
veil, I draw you back for long hours
The stars are the hair on your back
and I smell the warm air which climbs
up, having held your body, now
in my lungs, I hold your hot scent
and the metal in my fillings
melts, draining down my throat. Come now
sex of the night with the landscape
achieve your end with me and sleep
The sun makes silent
all the small planets
of inner orbits
and we only hear –
when they pass in front;
The stars have planets
which tug the belly
of their nuclear
mass explosion – soft
but more than enough;
In the lower tones,
of the dawn rise – there
the small star, has grace
for one still moment –
in the day soon lost;
The world compels us.
We are charred by void
when its emptiness
eclipses ours – but
soft glow the small stars.
Memory of Florida (Helplessness Blues)
What I used to be, and now
what I am, as we drive down
motorways through forest mass
listening closely with my voice
align like an eclipse moon
and the past blooms in present
rapture – I love this album
Old as I get, I will not
forget the forest drifting
drowsily past the window
this rain sifting tambourine –
and damp strung up on song lines
for this perfect alignment
in time and of void cultus
fixing her eyes into the void.
She was eating –
though without need –
a bowl of noodles.
When she sucked a last
noodle in, another
universe flicked off the end.
And she sat quite perplexed
at what to do with the mess.
There were so many
little nebulous drops
sparkling in the depths
she decided not to bother
with a cleanup