before my prayers layed still
as June became and felled my adult tree
infant screams for mortals with no crotch
bunched beside a rib-cage eye
while the hunched Stork borrowed an inch of my hill
before my prayers layed still;
of the city lights; of the morgue torch
of sorrow and a rain fist through my spleen
as June became the colour of my well;
how near the heavy crawl of the virgin sea?
through Hell onto the cosmic of the curse
striding with the weather of my brain;
I have heard the weeping of the clouds
casing my veins. casting the bricks of my blood.
is there ever a real God when it rains?
I have no steel for the wood-rot; nor the page
to turn with the golden death-Pike in my bondage bag
or to bandage the Beavers hands before they dam the fluids of my skull;
who has ever seen Winter wag his tail at midnight?
or Summer treacle her breasts at noon?
look harder for the birth-scar of the vine.
watch as the sleeping city dreams of padlocks for it\'s Bull
planting his stars on a half-mast moon
mourning a glass half empty
before my prayers layed still;