<< In-between two redbrick houses
there is an alcove and a shed
topped with a mossy corrugate.
On the campus. A leaf dances
shivers, hovers, behind the moss –
blown as if a storm plucked at it
on a taught invisible string.
I’m still in front of the horror >>
<< There is a leaf on the road home
I see in the peripheral
behind me when I look back down
the hill – on the grey concrete steps
It jumps and slaps the ground so fast
and in paroxysms of dance
confined to its small space – I blank
on everything and watch the glitch >>
<< Roland Barthes was crossing the road
when he suddenly stopped – in front
on the path ahead a brown leaf
shivered as if it was burning
but there was no smoke. Enraptured
he didn’t notice the milk truck.
As the blood pooled the leaf flew up
to hover over him, spinning >>
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
Only the finest and most active animals… – Nietzsche
On the seventh day, I rested.
I took my little boots, went out
and sat in the memorial garden.
Tears were licked from my eyes by time.
Cherry blossom was on the trees
a rusty angel holding wreaths.
I thought how, once built, a bridge lasts –
a stone bridge outlasts us, and sings.
Dreams of war danced in the cold night.
In rooms, piles of ancient books loomed.
The sun isn’t something missing
it’s an overflow of hot thoughts –
that dances on the horizon
and tricks us by travelling so slow.
I wanted to say this: thank you,
here is a Picquot tray of tea.
Like tidal waves upon a cliff
this came to me, this old feeling,
made me take a seat and begin
thinking the odds and ends again.
Oh, all my help and those I harmed
– joy hands on joy to us and then,
like lava at tectonic rifts
from this, may things begin again
This author will still be read, when
the sun has enveloped the earth
in a stifling embrace, and rock
again attains its prevalence
It will go down in history
down into the land, under it
with the rust, into the magma
where the planet forgets itself
The nation’s glory shall ring out
through the debris field in deep space
as comets impact planets, dull
armadas in the dead empire
They will still talk about today
when mouths are a thing forgotten
and the only concept is cold
Cold that stills the slowing atoms
I will remember you until
I lie on the linoleum
watching the inlaid glitter blur
until a galaxy appears
I will remember you, my love
breaking the law of the poem
We will forever have been us
There is nothing that can change that.
The wood gate is crisp
driftwood’s dry mirror –
and the church behind
is the rock upon
which the waves crash hard.
This hubbub decries –
with the tree’s creaking –
those who seek a peace.
Really there is no
well chiselled message;
In the graveyard hear
soft undefined hums
of voice and organ
mixing in hollows –
hear wind whistle through.
Hear your insecure
thoughts tapping upon
the stained glass dust – hear
choral doom and then
lays of the bright voice;
in time’s long empire
has brought the air here
and the soft water
If a house holds old things of you;
such as you, leant on a wall
trying to cry to ‘An Ending: Ascent‘
or you, sat on a step
the salmon carpet wet with tears
your hair, the faintest warmness
even you, on the dark landing
taking a glance into partial rooms
where concepts of girlhood collide
It will also hold the sublime
the purposeless snare trap of time
things you can see, but never know –
A few of a godfather’s schoolbooks
a tool chest full of tools and old signs
and those we love, who see us with sad eyes.
Where coastlines of infinite length
are caressed by seas of dark paths,
and clouds of infinite surface
indicate the strangeness of words
you will find me at the barbers
amid a sea of hair. Where kids
find the infinite resistance
of life begin to find purchase
upon a single lollipop
from a jar maddeningly full.
“And this one is for later on”
No kid, you can only have one.
Mind blown. But it takes a long time
for this lesson to register,
’til you see that not wanting sweets
is the only way to be free
and you wear black and grey and grow
grey. Excuse me. I just got kicked
out of the barbers for eating
an entire bowl of cheap lollies
I just noticed how much grey hair
had fallen from my head, vital
hair entwined with dust on the floor
piles of dust of infinite depth
It’s too late, I’m too tired
there are too many small senses
crowded into the bed with the big
beige allover tiredness –
Let me sleep, let me not write
the aches in my arms tonight.
Only warm up the bed till a)
I can finally relax and b)
The bus is late
Condensated windows drip
onto raincoats, yawns, mornings.
Alongside, a giant spider crawls
It takes a sodden leg
and taps the misted glass next to me
dunk, dunk, dunk
Pensioners get caught inadvertently
in its slowly trailing web
then go back to sleep.
Branches scrape the bus
like dull whistles
A myth can happen anywhere,
yes, even here where the black weir
constant as evaporation
As constant as the bird-song thrall
never lets up, always pouring
dark and when the weir is eaten
Still its constancy will shatter –
when all and the weir go up, splat
in the suns final inferno
Thunder out into space and pour
in a wall of material –
Stars won’t know what to make of it
Terror swims inside me like a basking shark –
it is my sullen wake, it fills the air behind
as I’m drawn along suburban stone.
I see the wild forgotten as a dream is forgotten
I know I dreamed, but what was it?
I stand on a hill and see the city
draining down its valley plughole –
soft scars left in the grading air.
I see this city move as a scrapheap moves
slowly downwards, churning the earth.
Waiting for a bus I wait too long
and my figure, mistaken for a statue
by some routine artist in a tatty book
is selected for the top of the heap
which moves, and the wild falls further.
In a shifting forest, in the past beyond thought
a foraging girl picks out an acorn
from a skin of dry leaves, her breath
marks the air. She leaves it
and the earth hurtles out from beneath