On The Banks Of The Pripyat River

That Galatian draper
Of parthenogenetic
Golden grapes
And apples of sapphire,
Oceans of lapis lazuli
Divined in her eyes
The mother of Aphrodite,
Born from waters high
Beyond heaven,
The tortuous waters
In stellar torrents
From braided brushed hair
In plaits which cascaded
Like Venezuelan or blushed Kenyan Falls
Down the hellebore back of
Our great Goddess Gaia,
With a samphire-scented brace
The ancients traced to their doom
In primordial hazelnuts festooned
About her neck, and seven
Phoenix eggs a grandson
Stowed from Yemen,
Born from fragrant desire
In such fecundity, such abundance
With celestial semblances
Impressioned in seven arches
Of her firmament above me,
Sufficient for holding up heaven,
With new advances in
Seminal-fermenting broth
Resolved in a garland of yawns
And languorous delicate touch
To spare her first-born’s tubers,
And so with a delicate cough
Which paradoxically would snuff out a
Kindred thickness of stars
By their redundant, hapless wicks,
(And from where pinnate-plants
Bore the name of Cosmos
In their penance),
Expunge black holes,
Drain oceans from skies
With catholicised taste,
Poured her boy’s illness from a
Terracotta urn
To secure his safe arrival
From shores of the leprosy-coast,
There he had sojourned with all those lame
And all those made infirm by wars
And misadventures; and their survival
The entertainment for their progeny,
There are two things we have observed
About the foibles of men
And their disciples –
Firstly, that they never learn,
And secondly their egos are
By nature never sated,
And they always get
What they deserve
From the immortal populous
Of Nemesis and Comeuppance,
And the Goddess of Depreciation
Turned to me and lifted
A curtain of dawn choruses
And spoke with thelytokous words
She counted three;
I have no enmity with truth
And far be it for me to displease
A Goddess with a neck and depths of
Merriment and pleasure that,
If She chose, She could make a man
Immortal, although she pledged instead
To deny this atavistic talent.

And so this is why men existed,
Unfathomable predilections
Became a habit, and the cloak
Of the floating planets unwound
The charred distress, the ancient
Razing of rivers and forests,
All to preserve the life blood
Of her son with pleurisy
And tuberculin
As wide as the winter in Chernobyl.



Lavender Weeps

There’s enough air
For everyone,
Even when breathing
Deeply, truly, at last
Inhaling, and yet,
Society compartmentalises,
Hides, keeps, rationalises,
Makes rarified that
Which meantime sleeps.

Waterfall of dreams,
My waterfalls have eyes;
Those without food today
Could have had food to survive.

Three ingredients create love:
Fuel, warmth, oxygen;
The same is true of life.
Those with power to sew
Are often caught with a knife.
There is nothing less above –
Lumber, pine, lavender weeps;
Less selfishness of mind,
And nothing else so deep.

The Submariner

238.

The fanfare of lovers’ cheers
And mothers’ fears
Silenced by their dreams
Which form a ballast
Which burst the barometers glass,
The weight of sleep, the dreams
Of barnacles and molluscs.
I think about all the homecomings
That did not happen, all the embraces
Of grateful sisters, and the fathers who
Were the commissioners of fossils
On that silvery coast;
It aggrieves in midwinter,
It shimmers in summer.
A gift unopened, a present,
A necklace of serpentine
Now tungsten. All the folklore
Unexplored, all these semi-precious
Memories which into blue dungeons
Silt and deposit.
The flags are furled with care,
The lid is closed on the casket.
It takes its own unending tangent, the coast,
The perpetual waves with their own summits.

Entrada

There is no satisfaction I have found
Where the talking heads abound,
Fecundity through a silver slither.
By their transmissions undeceived,
A different future misconceived
To my caruncle could deliver.

I’d rather wander worlds alone
If travelling lonely would atone
For those who stole from me.
Years to moments weighted gold
Which actors trapped and elsewhere sold;
Another time is remedy.