My home is a place of pain and of pride,
May my history shock and maybe surprise;
In memories made I cannot reside,
Over life’s table we drown and reprise.
We lost, and in forfeit we laughed and we cried;
We won, and in gaining we argued and vied;
Endless injustice, only Eirôn survived –
Letting go of our wealth, we suddenly died.
I am within a constantly spinning
Out of body experience;
It's true that Suzie made me do it.
Give me a cello and a double bass
And I ascend the braced confines
Of a marshy soul so sublime
You could flush for a thousand years
With all your torch-bearing trodden might
And a dynamic jubilation of flutes
And yet never find a mallow-pheasant,
And yet never see its sparkled flight.
To deny a drought, or climate end,
Ask how they kept their courses green,
Golfers, jockeys and those ascending
Unseen dukeries and queens
En route to monasteries,
Palaces and temples.
A river is not for mending.
I tried turning my mind upside down
And squeezing from this melancholic brain
Just like towels in a turbid
Or a memory of lemons
From a dry, unholy plain;
Yet the unfurnished words in my urn
Became vapour, became sky
And therefore irreverant.
Dropped lapis lazuli
Into that cracked amphora
Not long after I died.
My quest remains
That did not exist.
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 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.
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.
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.
A dog tastes first with his nose
And then his victim entrusted
Within his puffy
Outer-rain ring gyratory
And then suddenly thrusted
And swiftly transposed,
Years and years ago.
An army marches on its ribs –
Calamitous, our industries.
Do you exist in the marshes
Of my aquiline cerebellum just
Because I, too, do not exist?
How I wish I lived until
I’d hear beyond my windowsill
A bluebell-banded burble-rill.
Silver birches, dappled spill,
Mossy logs cross warty swill,
By crag and copse a throaty thrill.
Yet life is for the living still,
And I’m not blessed by Nature’s will,
And so I sit, and look uphill.