Two Fragments

I –

The rain sets a gradient on greens
Old lithograph fade, with yellows
Flickering, charring them, peeling
As if cloud, slate dark depressed
Is absent mindedly flicking through filters.
But there is a joy to this substance
A chunky soup for the steaming
For the hungry, who evaporate within
Its vacuum of feeling.
Only at twilight, such a light.
After, the streetlamps pale as soggy
Worm corpses, settle on the streets.
I miss the phosphor orange glow
Of the days when I was younger.
Today, I miss it. Maybe not tomorrow.

II –

Pylons grew out of the flesh of the land
Iron bones of blood-rust thrust through
scaffolds to hold up the cloudsky – how
The rocks were insufficient now
Heaven has grown heavier and heavier,
only metal and electrics can halt it
since it dropped off hurtling downward
toward the cold earth’s blank plates.

Questions of Living

How do we begin?
As our stuttering lives stall at the start
and our momentum leaks on the cracked flagstones
How do we choose?
Our choices crawl in the grass
but things are decided by feet walking
until our wails are cut short by the stamp
How do we live?
We don’t know how to choose, or begin.
How then, can we live?

We can live in the moment, maybe.
But living takes longer than a moment
and if the debt of many a moment piles up
in a greater accident – what then?
And our future moments are marked out
as so many digits in a bank account
How then can we live?

And living itself, what is living?
This waiting watching breathing sitting
Or the many flows of respiration
moving on through generations
not allowing us leeway to miss
these concrete hooks, and those who bait them?

Or maybe we can shore ourselves up
against the future’s distant storm
dark on the horizon, and our calm before it
By writing, thus, for futures to come
and hoping for rememberance, though not by that name
Or some strange force of propogation

Or pouring our measure into our friends –
the measure of our worldly time.
This at least is worth it.
This at least offers reply.

The question is a tricky thing
Posing ready to receive something quick
But certain questions won’t accept;
minor obsolete packets of sense
And rather burn for us to move ourselves
Out and about, to salve them.

The Poet and Some Logic of Poetry

Our world is getting prude again
It’s all the drink
There’s no more edge to straighten
It’s all centre.
Drink more and write – break
the literary rules
The advertisible rules –
and all is so.

from the origin –
they are sent out, spiralling
on the universe wing, to write
and fight, and to reverse
the strange path, strong force,
that saw them soar forth,
a configuration of angels
only to have their wings
snapped by a passing aeroplane
from the west.
The poets’ guest. Movement.

– –

My brain machine is configured
and the pencil marks start, the art
that is the particular sort,
of dark induced thought, the poet
and the pen and paper machine,
play catch up with the neuron – neuroses –
the thought patterns rise
and are surfed.

with
with all the expectant noise
one would expect, by now
at least the sound of coming crowd
of the deep works of the apocalypse
spread out on the world, like nutella on toast.

– – –

How can I be trapped? How?
In a body owned from time immemorial
and weary even in the calmest morning
my strong brain menacing me, grinning,
until my teeth fall out
and I die a granite heart.

My body makes me moveable,
it frees me from my bed, for the world –
why does it also confine?
I return to the same places each day –
not thinking, reading
and buying.

I need a muse, gleaming hot of soul
to calm me and entice to urge
and join me on the page.

– – – –

my complicity in the trick
loudly proclaimed by my conscience
lets out no solidarity, and
framing each problem alone in the dark
God leaves us unknown.
Whence authority comes,
from where society’s run
the dancing rats cannot see,
1 2 3 tongues up – and the death penalty.
Waiting, watching each is bored
before the modern horror store.
I need a love, not a scared heart in a bar.