Tuesday, January 03, 2012

a man with a gun as if

the dream slump of this the dream morphology
we are running through strange towns
we are entering a cave a green place
but the heat the new heat
the body-saki the blood runs like an open tap into
the ichor the cold ichor from the eye's core
the god thing the paranormal all day the white rearing
of the deer in the lost garden, the fear and
then not, everything in fast forward as though
someone had a whisk in your head my head their heads
who does not hate Language Poetry?
I am confused and undiagnosed
the father owl on the  mantel
the tunnel into which we cannot travel
the voices and the absence of voices
what sibilants we might make with our names
under our separate broomsticks in the wild rain
a man with a gun
that's all, a man with a gun near the hedge
where the deer
for years
watching in the dark, waiting
unable to move or turn
somewhere somewhere
a morning never comes

a huge child wipes the screen
that's all
everything back to stem cells
but not quite
look again
he's still there near the hedge
where the deer

none of this, worked
even for a moment
but then the startling glare all over
as it runs in

have you ever been butted by a charging beast?

do you know that moment of impact?
no, thought not
outside, feral child
drinking late at night by the railway


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