This life will pierce me to the core

a peach
that ripens
and spits
out a stone,

a stone
that splits
to a crack of green.

What seemed armour
is flesh;

this life
will crack
my heart
to its core,

until there is only poetry;

the winding road,
a dead snake,
the thought of a fox,

the illusion that
this world is
the only one

and the knowledge that it is.

to drink Guiness by the pint
at the Theatre Royal bar,

photograph ghosts
in downtown Manhattan

or cut palm leaves
outside the city walls
of Jerusalem

is to the same end;

of a
life that pierces
me deep
to the core.

What remains
is as cruel as summer,

cruel as the memory
of a first child’s dance

tight and thin
as the shadow
of a wire;

the split stone
cracks with green,

this life will pierce
me to the core.

Thirst

this tree
a goblet
with blue
poured in

i have lost
my camera
and cannot
open my book.

leafless tree,
the glass between us,
ragged plastic bag
for blossom;

i have lost my way.

White feather

“When a White Feather
falls in front of you,
angels are close by,”

said the Godmother.

“Angels don’t exist”

said the little girl, firmly.

She went into
garden to put
water in acorns
for the
faerie theatre,

(so they wouldn’t get
thirsty,)

and a gazebo made
from golden leaves
to protect them
from  rain.

She stayed outside
till the Sun
sank into
the magic place
near the hedge,

Left it
there
for their
invisible
plays.

The Language of Birds

once its heard
the language of birds
stains my ears
taints my tongue

glasslike, still
a language of trills
numbs the grass
trumps the words

i can’t break through this harsh nonsense.
to where the garden speaks and breathes as one

a gift, a glance
a language of chance
that reads my street
like words in dreams.

green as seas
crimson leaves
white as icebox.

break the habit of a lifetime.
just describe the world before you.

hand in hand
a savage band
sings feathered music

gland to gland
so dry and tanned
a gaudy parrot.

let each image smash and shatter.
find the kernal eat the meaning.

strand by strand
my teeth in sand
my heart in iron.

a bar of soap
a coarse blue rope
a crowded hotel.

speak the words, the glassy baubles.
tongue of thrush, throat of starling.

 

Mr Death

Mr Death lives in my bones
waits to eat them
as patient as a cat

sleeping by a rabbit-hole,

one eye half open;
he is always hungry.

I once saw him turn
the green flesh
of a leaf to gold,
then strip it back
to its skeleton
which he palmed
with one hand -
a most convincing
illusion of
total disappearance!

sometimes he plays this trick,
he stands just
behind me,
as if to tap
my left shoulder.
i spin on my heel
but he is not there.

Does he think I am
a candle
to be snuffed out
between thumb
and forefinger?

o he is a joker alright
i hear he dances
in churches and abbatoirs,

strips the rosary
of its beads

wears a black top hat,
whispers “now!”
in the ears of diamond sutra monks,

turns each object
you own
into an artefact,
and your living room
to a swansong museum,

tells bitter enemies
to patch their hate
into a kite
and fly it with string,

yes, he likes to laugh,

but quietly

like a cloak of ravens
moving at midnight -

he loves the worm
at the core,

has no boundaries
no sense of personal space;

preaches peace to the soldier,
mould to the cleaner,
wine to the sober,
doubt to believers

eavesdrops
on dreams
about clutching snow
on iron mountains;

yeah he plays tricks,
gives advice,
if you listen

he has plenty to say

“i live in your bones,
in your sunshine,
your clay.”

 

the hands of a rough god

I turn my head to my
right, next to me
a man with a frog’s head,
a dull brown jacket
and huge idiotic eyes
stares and drools.

a girl behind
a circle of flames
chokes and coughs,

collapses on
black earth
sweats, shivers,
her fingers dirty.

A man with black eyes
places a rough blanket
over her,

she sits up and vomits
onto the ground,
amongst the stench
and fluid
tiny beetles,
metallic red,
crawl away
patiently.

My hot chest
hammers to
break free, it

bulges
molten wine

ejaculates
an arc of white confetti.

Each white drop feathers
the wind, becoming
small white creatures
that find her,
explore her hair,
crawl into her ears and nose.

They walk up her spine,
Straighten each vertebra
And then fade like
warmth
from an untended stove.

The man ignores them,
watches her silently,
there is something careful
in the way he watches her,
as if blowing glass.

He mutters something under
his breath, makes a
sign with his hand,
and she stirs.

Her filmy eyes shine
and glow,

She shivers and jerks,
her body awake with pain
like a knotted rope
pulled tight between two hooks
plucked viciously
by the hand of a rough god.

Definately Another Bobcat

Pretty shit what they did to Dylan,
those longbeard whiteface
moral fantasists,
for whom words were sentiments
and sentiments reality.

Hounded by brainstrikingly idiotic journalists
Who only spoke in headlines and copy;

Hiding inbetween the angry heart and the seething brain,
A slim darko with a corrugated soul
Strolling nonchalantly,
Cigarette burning under
Glittering cat’s eyes,
Picking cat’s paths
Through the strange debris of liberal America,
It’s catcalls & stiffness, its
freedom cries and headsmacking ineptitude,

struggling to shake free from
teargas old men in sensible shoes
herding young men to steaming death jungles
driving enormous automobiles down
highway 61, and Dylan,
“an outsider”
asking questions of his interrogators
taking photos of cameramen
“could you suck the corners of your sunglasses Bob!”
“Do you want to suck them? Go ahead….”
Pursued by hordes of mentally famished girls and boys
Wracked by obtuse poetry,
Needlesharp images threaded together in seamless
Temporary mosaics

What Allen Ginsberg called
“ a column of air,
his whole soul placed in his outbreath, some kind of shaman”

angry, gifted., misplaced, instinctively grasping change
staying slippery
shrugging it all off -

“why did you become so popular, Bob?”

“it’s just something that happened, like anything else.”

But the catcalls and the jibes would piss anyone off,
He slipped from his motorcycle to the road soon after

But as one who hated to be understood too much
Perhaps this piss poison chalice was made to be broken

Over his electrified head –
He half relished it,
It made him an outsider again.