My Lie of Love
I scoop sunlight into pillows,
Abandoning sleep to fill the holes
Pouncing in my sockets.
I resuscitate the summer
As an infant composing order,
Blinding our magnet’s core.
Again, I praise prisoners
Stuck inside my steep parameters
Of burnt-collar spires.
Returning moments to Earth
I play by ear my year’s birth,
Timing eternal our death.
Enchantments
Only If I could embody the braveries of Dawn,
Where all is possible and all is seen
And all life congresses to the fortune of thought!
But I grumble out of bed and arch in drowsiness
Putting socks, trousers and idleness all on my suit
Of awakening, not quite ever knowing what it means.
I have never dreamed,
Or awoke to a full day of light;
‘All technique requires a person!’
Cries the tattooed man riddled with sight.
And so marches the condemned geniuses
In lead cloths, circles and itching youth
Unto their failures, unto the fortunes of night
Where their war cries are perverted to a fight;
Over the sailors, through rivulets of midnight
Where their martyrs are screams and vagaries.
Behind mirrors, consecrating the glare of clocks
In blackness splitting spaceless the breath
Carrying the words;
‘All technique requires a person!’
The starving breeze wheezes over the doodle
Comically engraving transmutations of words into flesh;
A shimmering silver light plates a heart red,
A mother\'s touch forms a wolf’s dozy rose.
Saladin\'s genuflect inwards to the stars,
Each one forms a step ignorant of space.
My eyes expand and flood like a puddle,
Dew reflect marbles from my sight.
Native rivers spur and gargle from the mouth,
The crows hum, devout oaks croak
And I awake to a river of darkness
Trickling from the bower of my lips;
I try to whisper, shaking visions over shoulders,
Shuddering eyes delighting themselves in dawn:
The crows sing, devout oaks bellow
And my hands stain the bed-sheets with ink.
All is an approachment of detachment,
I fade unto the light
Uttering the words;
All technique requires a person.
Only If I could embody the braveries of Dawn,
Where all is possible and all is seen
And all life congresses to the fortune of thought!
But I grumble out of bed and arch in drowsiness
Putting socks, trousers and idleness all on my suit
Of awakening, not quite ever knowing what it means.
I have always dreamed,
And awoke to a full day of light;
‘All technique requires a person!’
Cries the tattooed man riddled with sight.
Idle of Autumn
In orange fields where troupes of hares rehearse
And singe exotic the prosaic grass,
Eyes slew out the last breath of summer.
Oak veins curdle oiled sap to mirrors,
The season claims you as it’s undertaker;
Bells drone behind paint beginning to chime,
Blind alchemists huddle under gold sketches
Leaking whiskey for voluntary slaves;
Amongst this never-ending parade
Memories revive themselves in a squirrel’s skull,
Unfostered clouds hurl down strings and caskets
For a leaf beginning it’s last dream.
Several attitudes shake themselves off,
Moles ignite graves sickening soil with peaches,
Dust preaching reason waits only to start.
The Hatter’s jaw rings itself open
And suicidal priest\'s erect aviaries;
Wings apologise to the clapping wind
Setting auroras for a play of death
Capsizing eternal promises of life;
Duvets rolled dry rip and drip ash,
The peg-legged tiger re-tells his tale,
A presence creates a past for his cage
Floating on the brine iris reservoir.
The doodles once motioned by lead of breath
Recite the experiments imposed on them
By winds contrived for living portraits.
The relinquished infant regains decay
For history’s bucolic idealism;
The pirated Sun shadows cobbles
Shrivelled to dates and ticks for swollen hooves,
Vandals and tourists awe over gagged statues;
Marigold and rose-bush tanks charge themselves
Whilst the cuckoo assesses his mane,
Flat-head tempests peek through halcyon curtains.
Ruby puddles crystallise reflections,
Transparent embers freeze sweat and time
Stitching heckles on sewn pictures dissolving.
The connoisseur of sound groans in sight
As ripples expanding to red on white walls;
Tuvai’s flick the fire of your nova
Onto sheets covering the crowd’s applause,
Nuclear seeds blossom at the clown’s gesture;
This bed where flowers reach for your touch,
Where every step is an interrogation
And even stairs are mere creations of focus,
The world echoes from your nucleus.
In orange fields where troupes of hares rehearse
And singe exotic the prosaic grass,
Eyes slew out the last breath of summer;
It seems I last forever before this fall,
Revolving in the carousels of death,
Somnolence immortalised as my acme.
Rivers of the Universe
Rivers of the Universe
Exile marble neophytes
In ducts faithless as Dawn:
Liberties condemned to verse,
Enslaved by ancient waters
Guiding the washing of hands,
Project birds as ink through stone,
Flying home on wood-stage lights.
Tight as air, hollow as bone
In fury these words were made
(That of hare-bound gravity)
In streams as bald as meaning:
The same voices I measured,
Tugged from the bitter-rock pulse,
Crack yolk from each step on wounds
Wasting the year’s split-end curse. —
Enslaving the Sun’s orbit
On chrome keys in jigsaw wind
Motionless eyes recite verse
Burning the vale’s oil to sounds
Erecting life in the mind:
Breathing as his monument
Often the Poet will sit
And regress to all that’s known.
The Orphan’s Voyage (1/4)
I
Sepulchres declare romantic archaisms,
The beast’s historic famine portrays
And transpires the sword harvesting orb,
The rib-eye nursed over a black-patched cove
Churns out puffs of air from a school boy’s chest;
Pale scythes breed light on brine-nailed decks,
As if a Lock convinced the Moon it was hollow,
The sky shreds the sloughing drape setting the Sun
And each bitter shard in the headlights of a cloud.
He feeds the mouth which despises possessions
Of coldness, disguised as lozenges with veins.
The simple aspect of his withering heart
Pumps something other than itself onto shrimps and crabs;
How often do they remember being conquered?
Vaccinated aquariums camouflage themselves
And magnify autumnical depression,
The ripened skull disguised as fruit
(Never before seen or eaten)
Reviles against it’s toy-boat jaw —
Every wave compressed into hyphened silences
Reviving mandarin ink from blades transforming nature,
The ancient liquor of the artist’s tragedy,
Reducing reflections to mere immanence,
The sight before birth is only revealed
So long as he chases the scars which mend him;
Rehearsals for an execution of memory
Use the same ink for the bent-neck actor’s script.
The sycophant overdressing each season
In monuments of dust,
Paved by the inevitable step of Sun,
Liberates a splash of blood
Onto pages gleaming from a tiger’s tooth,
Polar Eclipsed by the carousal of chipping;
The eternal drain of pre-existence,
Set in motion by the will of confusion
Rekindles the undealt card of ancestral loneliness.
The postman of dawn lies starving beside chimneys.
The meadow’s curse is lifted from the genii’s oil,
Rulers and stitch-lip rituals happily dissolve,
Jackals ignite echoes on crystal nova lakes,
The wasted lay hidden as the storm eye gravity
Practicing a retrieval of nothingness
And a performance impeccable enough
For eternity, and it’s mirrored weights,
Turns into gates, gaping open the chest’s sore.
Before they had veins, statues stepped on themselves; —
Hands glued to beards groomed ears to sight,
Billows claimed a past in casts of thought
Slewing flesh, worshipping the foreign seed;
Now dreams burst open the liquid from snares,
The King of fools dances to his melody’s rule;
The trident is an ornamental gnat basing the stage
For green comets stalking the orphan’s voyage,
The last one to a land of his birth.