Monday, November 24, 2014

in/of/and lonely places (for Diana Manister)

the firs voice what falls off
the surrounding fire the wall at the call
you in the outer place far off as angels
we have no discipline outside of children
do not eat sprouts for they are unlovely
and resemble the genitalia of aliens
for which reason alone negotiate
parsnips and neeps on the other hand
are perhaps sent for teaching
and although undesirable may have higher

you with no voice or face in the firs
is a different story a cast-up from the bore
that sweeps at dawn all things
at the pace of tidal horses

think now of Hong Kong how they clean themselves
daily and wear tight stuff under the LED drumbeat
how they time their ashdrops to their pace
their fake Rolex between mouthsful
of Blue Girl prawns in white Mah Jong
and the shout that goes on forever
up Temple Street I am there in my bright
white eye at dusk at dawn at nightfall at the hour
in the crepuscular dance of half this half that
where you as a ghost wrap around

for this is the purple deep where our dreams
return impatient in their hooves look how they steam
and stamp upon the iron bridges over the slight river
so wide and hollow such a torrent of silence
nothing was known nothing of the Dead
who still gnashing crossed and were gone
in lucky money swirls of smoked love

just think of all of it at the hypnagogue as you fall
as you ache as you collide as you enter as the incoming
as the fire in the hole wakes you again
to what could have been

phosphene, I must call you that as a summoning
for the pressure and outer edges
think then phosphene, think of me
down there in the river and strait
turbulent and unrelenting as drowned childs without
drifting below without faces
looking up always up


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