Tuesday, December 30, 2014

all the way out

such a thing has come upon me now
where even the rainfall appears slanted
and uneven

missus in the rain oh stop it
with your wild birds

for it is even enough of the hooting

of disaster like they are Tarot birds
that will not stop

even when the water reaches
out and up to

such a thing such a collapsing thing
no, it is love, so please
continue though it breaks and storms
though everything
though the rain breaks the windows
it is only our hearts that resist
fear fear fear
all its devices
but all our hearts here are wild hearts
and will not stop

their little engines
of dread

is this your stuff I found
along the path, discarded
on the way to the door?
did you walk naked
to this midnight?

hoot now
as never before
hoot as though your mere heart



proximity, prolapse, intercrura, cartography

why would you curse the future
for such motorbikes in the rain
yes outside smoking
inside looking and thinking
yes yes I have no standards
and anything now yes anything
upstairs no don't just don't

in the hallowed hall with the fan
heater blowing

rainfall in the east window
slight oh slight
lakes that hurt all over the map
here be dragons baby
off the very edges of the known world
no no



Schlock of the future

the holding back think of your secrets
that are blockages to love

all night and all day smoking dope

my parents have fallen by ill chance
into a huge tank
full of shit
in your/my dreams they flounder
rescuing puppies in their mouths

like komodo dragons in their salivatory filth
someone light it up
danger danger danger
at your leg it biteth

oh it was never love
just first aid gone mad

what give itself to everyone anyway
with scant regard


Wednesday, December 24, 2014

spring tide—
the sun jumps
over the moon


Monday, December 08, 2014

that's not even wrong

the child that wakes at dawn child of patterns
(by the fainting episode) the magic lantern
through the blue curtains their shimmer their streetlife
who listens to the lights at night that track the angles
of the only room so the faces the spectators loom
so every room another box without a door

sees the child in the future the child without eyes
feeling for his/her alongside in a crumpled still-warm
stillborn silence now there has been enough
there is no news today of the escaped thing
perhaps it has not happened, not here
the child that escalates and vaults

the child that in its father's arms looks out
on reeling fields of mist to remember
futures of unlived blood and love
in the mirror he will not wake
in the other mirror she will not wake
not in this or other futures
but still he is held she is held
as though the leaves reeling down
in wind and rain had purpose had time had past
the child its little eyes alive to this
starting starting in fear and background love
the child that will not wake to this
will not dream here
the child with three sleeps left
child with flowers for hands
child of emergency lights
dreaming undreamed child of the fog-ridden pines
and pulses child in the angel light
and the police are here and it is really all over
but hold him hold her close at the fading
the quickening of this child, of this, child
your instincts will not be will not be born or lorn
not for nothing.not for nothing

she was not ill in that way, not in that way
child you had a chance to wake but did not
and what engine now clamours
but nothing now shall it wake
not for the sun or stars
shall it creak its earthly eye
not for nothing engine not for engine nothing
only cast away by our fear in the wasteland
behind the wall between the houses
alongside the streets where once
a page yet to write itself
newly vacated still-warm
these unlived forgotten episodes
of love on which he looks
still in arms in the garden only this afternoon
she looks out from the swaddle
though she is too old for this and cannot now settle
see in her in his eyes it starts again
it cannot rest and hush it deeply
deep as houses and the backs of beyond
deep as the blue startle of long-ago dawn
unlived, unlived, only dreamed
in your castaway gaze
from the arms of unborn fathers

for she was not ill, not in that way
and all your futures out of time, unredeemed
reward of the scraping she was not ill nor will be
nor was that life born along those backstreets
or in the wainscot or in the wall or in the panels
the fabric the joists the horsehair the signatures
beneath the paper and paint and plaint
nor did the wind moan there in autumn
or in the fog or at dusk when you would
feel it most if feeling had been born

bring me your dead children to house, to rehome
to accost as roosters who dance in the thick cloud
tonight/today/after all/later and all of a sudden and only
perhaps where the winds meet

for this does not end here
or there or in between

for she was not ill, not like that
in the fairy vat the leaden kettle
the idea of it has no place no home
no spot to settle, no dapple or apple
of its eye in the orchard I-spy in mid-afternoon
in the moss or mosses or picaroon
or isoglosses topes and tropes or thropes or other substance
of mist and scopes where you after all
are not shown any ropes, after all anyway the moon
after all and anyway the stars and their hurtle their gravity
that cannot act or anyway turn turtle

for yes and no and this never can never come too soon


Sunday, December 07, 2014

les ombres de la rue/some riffs of Edith/La Mome Piaf

it was these appropriations which first enabled
her covetousness of the skin and at 05:30 in Easter
she separated from her father and took a room

Edith deducted from frequenting of prostitutes
in the brothel of her grandmother. her
weakness towards men. imagine her miracles
of blindness fooled only by folklore for yes

it was a thing that started and darted a small thing
that shone and did not shine all the while the sound
of water a hubbub and blub and through the hot hotel

as if in a confined hot water tank an angel
of limitation had careered and crashed
found itself reborn in froth all down the street

the singing street with its verve and violence
and was and was not and was again
while all the while even in its smallness/ugliness

what anyway can men know of this?

Saturday, December 06, 2014

future crime

and your looking like that
as though and then the tides
the tides that come as if another
did not yet exist wait wait stop
one would cry from the time
machine no wait for it cannot be long until
all this is borne down subsumed
where you will
have no visa no right or rightly
with this think and think
again what and wherefore for this moment
will pass deeper in the crystal
feel the shapes that will become
when you wake to the horror
that passeth for excitation
of the merest the most perfunctory
but not one no was missed
or stayed or neglected all these
crimes were duly dutifully shouldered
to the wheel of list and lissome lust
too late then for any of it
now only the exploding debris
to be plucked from the mud
by the avid little fingers
of the light