Familial disasters
Bore disasters in me;
I am a master of nothing,
Not even Serendipity.
If only I could have such feelings,
My soul made for annealing,
But I am not for kneeling
And that is all there is.
Be wary of the door you choose,
For one is black
And one is blue;
Deeper than the lake
A bruise,
Deeper than the mines
A truth,
Where the Lady is buried
In an old borrowed tune.
I could do anything
Superheroes can do,
If for a cup of tea
With a biscuit or two.
I have a saucer,
China in grasp;
I could do anything
If life could just last.
Every night I get drunk
My Dad said to me;
His words in my head,
As he became me.
Don’t take any drugs
Said the shamans in suits,
While injecting me
Daily, daily yes do;
Invidious, lividity,
Four fingers,
Three: count,
Then these two
With morphic roots,
And one, one,
It’s true.
In a dream you left for me,
Showed where souls will go,
A mantel-mounted wooden stand
Held miniature drawers in rows.
Should I show you how your brother rests?
You said with some resolve,
And pulled out one such tiny chest
Wherein all hope dissolved.
No treasured urn, no cenotaph,
No scripture on a stone,
Just a hundred unsung blocks
In that yew-tree spirit’s home.
She said ‘It’s called The Dog Board’,
It homes your snow-dogs too,
There beneath the foxgloves,
The white drops and the blue.
There’s no entreaty I could make
To save a space atop,
That place both terrifies and captivates
Above the cauldron pot.
706.
Copper harvest soul,
Like flats filled with stolen lead;
Nowhere left to go.
705.
In my bonsai farm
I took refuge, Zen non-path,
To keep me from harm.
Ego-buffeted blustering coast.
I hurt the ones I love the most.
Seaweed thoughts and neon foam,
The loaming mantel hides a ghost.
Shipwrecked, re-wrecked,
Where’s the host?
The crow-man left the crow’s outpost.
Feather-blossom, light as moon,
If we leave you’ll see me soon,
Apple-wort and rotten trunks,
Ego-thorn and ego-dent,
My life there’s one experiment.
The ones I loved hurt me the most,
Sacramento, holy ghost.
Seven Hundred Jisei 