The Last Poet

From the very ends of my fingertips,
My fingerprints as old as rings in the oaks
Of the seven southern counties lost,
Or the sincere lines 
Not just merely-read 
By a calcified Babylonian 
Chiromancer, but upheld
As something splendid,
As delicate as dreams in a turning moth,
I will channel and convey
The ferocious glass-through burning
Compelling a demiurgic resolution
To my resistible demise,
With dazzling apogees we shall rise
From this derelict and too-long,
Much too-long debasing nadir
Scrubbed clear of demagoguery,
And we shall thrive, for love,
For all that is still worth celebrating,
Then like Emily, and Edward,
And all the ancient poets,
Just as suddenly disappear.

Futility No.2

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
Samian stream
Or a memory of lemons
From a dry, unholy plain;
Yet the unfurnished words in my urn
Became vapour, became sky
And therefore irreverant.

Nonchalant gods
Dropped lapis lazuli
Into that cracked amphora
Not long after I died.

My quest remains
For something
That did not exist.

How futile.
How endless.

The Waking

You’ve been making yourself sick again.
Patronymic yellow, a man’s best friend;
I have this great distaste for the ages
And I shall bellow from my aberrant soul
A rail against all travails, your spume

And your foam, his wife and the world;
Her maiden voyage, champagne soaked,
Dried up rivers, bare oxbows;
For easy forsaking abundance is made –
Old time lore, there she blows.

You pushed that dire emetic back in
From where it did flow;
Absolved the sins in doing so,
Excesses of the long-since dead
On to our living transposed.

Sleep only ever satisfies the waking.

Slate Island Lake

I must burst this skin of hypocrisy 
And ride the eighty flames arrayed
Where a seaplane landed on ice
As thin as a rhyme or a tooth
Found doubting time
Not far from a village outflow pipe.

Strange typographies -
I must thread so many embers
Of this mirthless house remembered,
In myrrh and myrtle's mysteries
They threw some grounded cinnamon
Back across our borders; those pilots
Buried an uncaught bouquet
Decayed, adjacent to that
Cracked and damaged surface;
Defiled village roofing, tiles
From flattened, deshelled turtles;
My heart was restarted and now
I am haemorrhaging deaths
As we hurtle, unprotected
And unprecedented
Out of my mind's congealed
Mnemonic eels
And into the first rains
Since a hundred years ago, or so,
Dependent on your perspective.

The Past Is The Future Is The Past

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.

Makrókheir

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.

Pyrena

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;
Memories bladder-manacled
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.

Incomprehensibly then,
Such totalities
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,
These mysteries,
Regardless neither of
Cooling distances
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.

Foxholes

My missing fox-soul searched,
Far from foxholes flooded;
Faux Moon muzzle-mud observed,
Drizzle cubs cold-blooded.
Her vulpine veins saponified,
Her den reborn inverted,
My hair aflame personified
One less soul converted.
Refrain a sale, saint to ermine,
Daylight’s dearth, unearthly bowl;
Something singing for your soul
For longer life determined.