V.19

“A witch is more lovely than thought in the mountain rain”

My language machine has rusted
elements and black mould. shut up
the screen and see no more toxic
dosage, ignore the buzzing flies

on various empty ice creams.
I can smell mildew soaking my
semantic pillows. I hear her
pen scratching for miles of heathland.

I pull the ripcord over and
over but nothing’s happening
then everything suddenly stops.
I’m too late and no longer care

for the strange way i seem to friends.
Many hundreds of pupate words
have burst from my fingers in her
gaze and honour upon my throat.

The rain which appears throughout life
and reappears like a candle
flutters, appears and she is there
standing with her fellow witches

in a graveyard. I love her style
of fighting. She stands there and wins
against the wind, is motionless.
her presence maketh my thoughts die

Wings of a Book

Books have wings, that is to say
They have pages, and with us pages fizz
In reading, glitter out and draw us in
Building spark and fire in mind and eye
As the letters pile in kindling piles;
From jumping out and striking hold
Of attention (bold and striking attention)
They kindly burn and radiate heat
Which leaves us to dwindle to dregs and drabs
Of a person, held there feeling pleased
In the wound-round wirey web of tales
And leaves us to gape, to brush off convention
Letting our miserable minds out to fly
And in this flying, find our ease.