I can’t wait to fall asleep, soft
and slow as a cloud dispersing.
With that ache and contrast shift where
things disappear and become blur,
words disconnect and disengage
and the images dance amongst
the silence. When mouths open, then
the silence deepens. I can’t find
the werewithal to concentrate.
I am a lizard with a tongue
slipping out fast to taste the air
in a desert and my light muse
water has been destroyed by sun
scratching its fingers over all,
leaving hot and cracked marks. Scuttle
into shadow, and soon the cold
is within. I can’t think to do
anything. I lie in the warm
glow of the new LED bulb
and stare at the ceiling. The word
approaches when, failing to find
my muse, I fall backwards in the
dark, and the she catches my shoulders
in an eldritch trust exercise.
I fear the dark, like anyone
that grows along the surface like
moss. Dear friend, I fear I am done
writing outside of fashion
and that is life. Lichen grows in
me, letting out its frost tendrils.
I am clean and clear throughout when
I have the better understood
moments. But to reach those I need
suns and locales I am far from.
I am out beyond the long range
of the beautiful. Juxtapose
this evening, alone, and unpained,
with an evening we knew by sea
where I had pain, yes, but also
peace. I live, now, to reach that peace.
Moss, you will note, is oft unsung.
Though it arrives first, and fastens
black rock for the later aeons
who soon forget it. I lie here
reaching for soft Erato’s hair,
or the bend of her ear, to breathe
whispers and promises of things
she wants me to do to her yet
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.