V.63

The future doesn’t exist
only the moment exists, and the moment
is the moment of despair that the future does not exist.

There are no hopes
There are only desires and deepest of those
the desire to have hopes.

I ride the bus back from town
having achieved a slight melancholy

and bought things I did not need
when I should have been saving
for the future I do not have.

Love once tore my head open
and everything inside fell on the ground.

Now, I feel no love.
And my head remains empty.
such is time’s slow dripping
and the cloud moves toward the horizon.

Should I be angry? No.
Should I want
Should

Note to this poem: this is not really what I am feeling. In reality the hopes I have are what has led to a situation with an inbuilt lack. But of course, we are fundamentally messed up due to the situation we find ourselves in. Maybe it is that the deepest hopes we have can send us into a jammed cog situation. That our estimations of the world are systematically wrong in a way that functions as an excuse to continue in an equilibrium that leaves us in a bearable situation, even if that situation is dead and jellyfish like. Maybe a moment of decision deferred is like a coagulant.

Silenus

In the smooth dark the faun first arrives,
stepping from the skin of my best friend.
So much support has gone into this
and now we’re dancing and all call out
which older films had taught us to love.
Things swim before my eyes, and I too
swim in these moments as I placate.
We are far from home and soon will leave
for those far shores again. Oh soft time.

Drinking whisky they dream or don’t dream
as is their need. The old bottles pall
as their blood is drunk. And the sober
watch on at the loud speeches and song
and the night becomes long. And yet still,
in this time and place where we cannot
get precisely what we want, and feel
pain, the smiles around us float on streams
of lesser darknesses and heat to boil

that pool of life’s worth again. We hear
Sigur Ros sing as we change places
again. And sit in the darkening
moments that fade. And look into eyes
We shall not see for other ages.
Silenus sits and watches smiling
Before he scratches an ear puzzled.
Something seems not quite right to his eye.
He is wrong. There is nothing wrong here

Dove Builds a City in the City

A winter wind gusted
Dove heard it, rang through the archway

Her dark veins pulsed in the frost
Til the blood boiled over hope

Cracking the paving glade
Her crusting eye fixing on the mist
the dirt, the sand, beneath the skinnings

Crystals poured from her lungs
Piling growing strata of symbol
Resolving, concrete sinnings
Shimmer towers, seeding.

A winter wind blew
Dove heard it, and said
A winter wind taught us to dream

The Bypass (Life is a Fire)

Worry fills the air, it has always filled the air
In the dark crouched under a cliff edge, clutching
Close our churchly comforts, curling
Fingers round our hope and hurting.
In bed caressed by muster horns of a great storm
Our worries go riding out over the top of the trenches
Gunned down by thoughtless death-machines, our dreams
Turned nightmares, teach us mercilessness to utopian thinking.

We live on the thin red line which hedges provisionally
The blurry gap of dystopia and the real.
We see burbling spitting demagogues rising from the ashes of war and despair,
And wait for nothingness to dry like mould in the bathroom
Peeling into oblivion and resting on a stone floor, forgotten by the universe,
Not marked by a single smile, but marked by a single frown or dry tearduct.

No.

Our challenge, our tribulations and trials
Are but one – to keep the bleeding faith in life, sharp teeth gritted
To stand high above the wave and teach it like lightning it lacks a purpose we fulfil
To dance in the fire like fire and lift our friends up, and the weak,
(who are strong but if they can flow
like mercury among the other metals)
Say, Drudgers, worriers of the world, rise up, you have nothing to lose but your fear
We have the stars to win.

And if one day, sun rising on a field of martian grass,
Disaster comes, we will deal with this disaster
Shuffling our cards and smiling at the draw:
We keep the fire and pass it on, whirling and cavorting from soul to soul
Lift the handful of dice and play your role,
Forging humanity from the sparks and defying the world to fall.
Get angry, get warm, and never bow.
Never bow at all.

Cold Car in the Dawn

Each and every bright city morning
Like countless fires extinguished falling
Dark and letting darkness reign:
The people wake, in bursts, a flood
Of living drowns the world again

And along the cold cracked-concrete roads
With cold-cracked paint, the living go
To and fro about the earth
And driving quickly up and down.
Each darkling dawn a swarming birth.

But in each cask, each bleary eye
Sees dawning sun conduct the sky
In symphonies of light and shade
And sometimes from them tears are drawn
By dawnings from which days are made.

Though sufferers may infuse the world
In screaming song, and shouting hurl
Sharp judgements out upon the head
Of human shadows, enemies
And screaming wish the world were dead:

Shadows vanish in the light
And leave the mind from time to time.
And wiping sand from out their eyes
The humans bear upon the sun
And bask resolving under sky.

Whitby Church Hymn

Those limestone souls, a crowd surge to the gates
where wooden beams nourishing wyrm, deny
a crossing of the red river – useless names,
given fresh to the mason-master puppeteer.

Sitting squat, one arm outstretched, and sly
squinting for the sea-spray, grim eyes dripping
complacent – playing with a certain joy, and lit
as the moon brings him a cawing custom of hope.

But chaos, in its own self certitude
sways slowly forth in undulations of infinite patience
caressing those lucky ones inside

Where more are lost, soft names dissolving
As the waiting hollows reveal their shapes, and the less
In turn await their pockmarking.

On Hope

If sometimes it seems that I have no hope
and sometimes it seems that I cannot rest
with the state things are, and stinging riposte
the many gifts of life – forgive me.
For something grave must force your hand
to pick up the pen and rage at the light
and its dying.
And often for me, it’s rage or despair
the savage bites of the worm in the bud
which have their source of inner trouble
struggling to find a name.
These constellations of rage ignore
The manifold ways we have much more –
The gleaming of this human planet.