‘you do not play things as they are’
Always fading in and out
the myriad creatures
coming from the opened gates of creation
I look into the mouth, the entrance
and the fissure is opening
in what I thought was solid
in my own chest too
the wound is opening
in what I thought was solid
and the pain of it makes me still
and try and sit through it, please
I might cry to the hurting god
and the sitting through becomes
a kind of knowledge
and the god suffering through
whatever the god suffers too
becomes a kind of compassion
the companionship of passion
and the myriad creatures
between these twin gateposts
which I don’t need to spell out
for a reader such as yourself, I know,
come flowing out like
a spillage of blood,
spoilage of water, the beautiful
and the putrid, the vanity
and the superabundance of humility.
not having seen enough
by any means
what can I add?
say that the
and good place for a picnic
what they say
as if that
was a condemnation
there are long
with broken chairs
the burnt remains
of former campsites
and the birds
to flying in
and out the windows
will this be made
into luxury flats?
or the whole site
a business park
for the supposedly
of the world?
I’ll be back soon
I’ve just gone off
to oil a bicycle wheel
From his own tree,
The negative version
Time moves round him,
A mythical figure
As he sways.
To the terrible
Centuries, the ghettos
And the camps,
Hushed into gas chambers.
A kind of hero,
Reminding Jesus that he,
Too, betrays something.
The whole turning away.
Who was Judas’ mother?
It’s not recorded
How they felt
Taking him down,
The shameful suicide
Who nobody helped,
Nobody caught in mid-fall.
Thinking about the murder of Julius
As his name-month swelters
And the Unitarian Doric of New Road
Houses a new busker
The formal portico is like a promise
Of something even better
Rational organisation of things
Simplicity of a sun-shaped god
The flute-player misses a note
Sparrows chip the paving
– No blood on these stones –
The next high improvisation he attempts
Disappears into the blue and out of history.
Columns indent like inert components
Of some unwieldy gear
Which has run down now and lies
Disassembled in the workshop –
Cog-wheels and grease, the smell of solder.
a glimpse of the truth
one of the
lager can set
of the railings,
a greyish membrane
to the sea.
of the frothy sound
of toing and
froing waves and
the smell of
stale human piss
carrying a pebble
in its bill
and lets the stone
for doing this
as it repeats
The giant, bloated corpse of Micky Mouse
has been discovered, finally,
and is being loaded onto a flat-bed truck.
Black arms dangle on the road,
gloved fingers brushing tarmac,
a worker bangs down the tent-like ears
with a spade; the tail, a shrivelled inner-tube,
drags by the truck exhaust. The engine
fires up, and between dusty sycamores
the country lane chokes up with diesel
and the mildewed stink of this decaying mouse.
He’ll be buried in quarry landfill, with all
the other heroes, all the other tragic puppets.
Goodbye Micky! It wasn’t good at all while it lasted.
Soon you’ll be just a name to frighten the
children with. All the men, crammed into the
greasy cabin, wear dust-masks on their faces.
They’re really earning their minimum wage
in this drizzle-fucked day: the first cold drops
begin to piss down on the windscreen.
None of them would express any pity for Micky,
not after the things that happened
when that giant mouse last went on the rampage.
And Christ the stink! The stink of that dead mouse!
Gull cry: agent, accessory,
Bearer of obscure code,
Inaccessible punctuations of the sky,
Tonal interjections, hyphens of sound –
Connecting the blind, dumb colour of everything
In the relays of your unreadable sentence.