Cloud Topiarist

Clouds shaped like lovers,
A giraffe without a neck,
And skeletons in cupboards.

Cloud topiarist,
We seek perfection and yet
The nearest shears are in heaven.

Metallic balls on a yttrium string
Swing rhythms on a table;
Dead offices; disconsolation.

Was there ever a collective
Endeavour roaming
Worth our reminiscence?

It remains an open secret,
There are many dead men walking
And living people buried;

This is what occurs
When graves within my sleep interred
Are kept broken, undelivered.

I hear recurring prophecies –
Spiral vortex dreams –
A financial offshore tremor,

A van concealing hostages
In flags of white and blue,
Loaded guns, rooms in rubble.

If over nations clouds remained
They often gave that day a name,
Apartment diaries, online news,

Then happy in this skylight citadel
Are those murdered few,
For at their graves

Where clouds give shape
They’re brought to life
By a drama or two.


Superinjunctions

One day all the press,
Online and print,
Will be formed completely
With advertisements,
One hundred percent
Fillings, from habidashery
To gasoline proponents,
To hide and collude
And ride and dismiss
The dissenting
Foaming waves
As they rise and crash,
While starved waters
Of truth inundate
Studios, penthouse flats,
And meeting rooms.
If that’s not already
The case, then I’m a
Pregnant seahorse adrift,
Or a starfish colonising
Panamanian dunes
And Honduran rifts,
Just like that
Spate a decade ago,
When some matter
Or other took place,
A tort-law judge
Deigned beneath his silks
That we too were beneath
His bar of knowing
What does and doesn’t exist.

So I superinjunctioned myself
And no one could know,
Neither families nor friends,
The life I deprived
Of myself, unpublished,
To the public unknown,
A red headline splashing
Other content to fool
The populous into confirming
Their pre-suppositions,
While the actual event
Slipped by unopposed.