None of this will sooner be fixed
Unless there’s some convergence,
Some commonality of purpose
Across all the eight divides:
Artists in their artists’ beds;
Capitalists in their
Leaders and followers,
Families and a hermitage;
Straddling the global
And ego-moribund purpose
Of the macrobiotic;
The squalid and the divine,
The sanctimonious and the suppressed
Within my squid-like mind.
I want my flint spark find
To be returned,
Folded into my soul,
To undo all this time.
This bed must be the same bed
Where scarcely I slept as a child;
Though always morning light misled,
Outside captured sons were filed.
A different house in future,
This bed retains a frame;
Love’s blood behind a suture,
Mnemonic skin for shame.
A childhood I’d not chosen,
A place where no one goes,
For future wealth they’ve frozen
And buried guns in tundra snows.
A dusty damask, gin and tonic,
A different time no longer near;
Herons strut through bamboo colic,
The past again will disappear.
A droplet born here -
Perceived in a heatwave,
Momentarily iridescent -
And then swiftly disappeared.
A tutor I met from Cappaducia,
Home of hills in white,
With hands as long and godly thin
As a lost Andalucian delight
Within such market throngs,
Clothing of mute go-betweens
And azimuth mosaics
Draped over impossibly
Bulbous urns concealing frogs
Carried on the blue heads
Of astrophysically bright
Prophetesses and their sons,
Absorbeing my attentions
In orbs of their golden horizons.
Relief had carved a mitre,
His hieroglyphics spoke
Through tokens in mouths
For passage to an afterlife,
Though sometimes also of loss
So profound as to stay unspoken;
Or if not unspoken then staccato;
Yet all that remains of his riches
Are in seven broken glass cabinets
Beneath a taxidermied albatross
In a museum, in a long-ago Morocco.
Everything you see of me
Rooted more resolutely
In those muddy hoofprints
Of my morning loneliness.
In all probability
Such acts of importunity
Would go unnoticed;
Artists’ strokes still pondered
Under rising sands,
Poets who wrote with much-devoted wonder;
Murmurations from ancient loves
A league beneath a perma-land.
Forebearers’ genres costed now,
Ashes pack a summerhouse,
Berries bluesy caterwaul,
What did we know of here at all?
They dredged his head, encrusted prow,
Entrusted to blind seabed sows,
A bludgeoned god dislodged himself,
To find his home on a pastor’s shelf.
Let the past no longer hurt,
Find the future you deserve;
Time will slow, Time will curve,
Excavate your universe.
Feeding dreams where water fills
Cactii on soul windowsills;
Their fame to take, then to kill,
Turning chervil into dill.
Propel a ferry, heads are down,
Underwater rusted crown;
Now the orb’s entrusted too,
Solo shoot into the new.
This breath is the breath for an ending;
This breath is the breath for defending;
This breath is a breath for befriending.
Under this gourd are skeletons;
On unseen frames ride pelotons;
Steered through hands of Telamons.
This beat is the beat descending;
This beat is the beat for a mending;
This beat is the beat never-ending.
A headful of future, lesser the happened,
Helpless and hapless, a past still unfathomed;
I assumed my own death, ineffably seamless –
Life passed me by, recurringly dreamless.
A handful of future, brighter the tearless,
Time observed Her curse in a helix;
Manoeuvres of Grace, abased are the fearless,
Measured in friendships, kinship and feelings.
All the processed meals
And all the steady cravings;
All those times I’d mostly feel
My esurient sense of failing;
All these glands within me
Like silkworms masquerading,
Blind their burrow-mouths must be,
These ever-unworldly sensations;
Saliva in my pancreas
And bilious in my breathing;
To strangely knotted bleachers
From where I sat once witnessing
Impassively, all my days receding;
With those who would abuse me
Only then, to obliterate
And smash these blistered benches –
Refuting my existence,
My purpose; those perpetrators,
Those missing old soul-eaters.
And inexplicable mythologies,
I step out from shadows
Framing my toxic profligacy
With rhododendron, rose
And briar-choking ivy
Bordering my inadequacies
Made tangible from the tacit,
Born out from yellowed ivory.
How odd, I reflected
In afternoon relapses,
That our connections,
Regardless neither of
Nor cold absences which only show
Just how much we know
Each other’s oldest ossified routines
As we trespass through boundaries
Only then, again and kneaded again,
Transposed into our folded selves,
Our living sea.