New Works

 

Swift and the Tulip

The knife is sharp
     and swollen with the squid’s blue-black ink;
Tucked against his side; on that horse;
     riding along paths strewn with traps laid for wolves.

The jester mockingly makes his way
     to the duchess, foiled fool in brimstone-coloured drapes,
And jocularly hands her that cup
     her ready pout so eagerly sips dry.

And there go the fir trees
     shedding bark like snake its skin,
While that horse with its rough hooves
     goes on pushing mulch over the dead groom.


 

Hippolyte 

The word sun is the sun.

And as the sun rises
     in the early morning sky,
so does the same sun rise inside the eye,
sweeping, with its tender fibrils,
the dusty darkness out of the hollows of the mind.

The very same sun that is said to go to rest at night,
now sets placidly in the hollow of my breast,
and as I cradle this gentle corpuscle,
I fancy what it would be like
to err more and know less…

For when I err, my son is there,
just like that sun,
that rising in the early morning sky
chases musty shadows,
like clouds, out of their hide,

and then comes to rest
on the hallowed breasts of that infinitely stupid blue sky,
that not knowing whence or whither, holds it aloft, 
just like that mother who, it is said,
once held her child in her arms.


 

To the end of love

(Eyes slit as a moon in half,
     seeping tears as dry as blackness)
– the cold, fanged, slithery hand reached
     and snatched at his neck…

And though not knowing whether we had
     indeed reached the end,
the body spasmed, as all living things,
     being alive, naturally do. 

But the final hour had come;
     and as it chimed its last dong,
came the knowledge that love
     was here supping for the last time.

All then was history,
     a story much the same for every rat…
(So it went, as the child lay in bed, 
     repeating to himself the word ‘nothing’

till he became lost to himself.)


 

A Sea of Twos 

The incarnadine coloured scar,
     like a leafling in a sapping wait
     for that which nourishes it,
seeks to find that knife,
which, having cut, made it be.

One tree is swayed violently by the wind,
while another is being uprooted
     to be later consumed by fire 
     in some home in winter.
Memorised in their branches, all trees bear a story.

Theirs is one of deep love with the sun;
     ours is a dream dreamt while dreaming in sleep.
While we dream in our sleep,
they, awake, dream 
     the dream of the morning.


 

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