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I Am Why Your Ghost No Longer Speaks
from Gebo, 2021 Your ghost walks by my side chills iron bars to keep me waking we navigate the paving slab’s follicles where trees protrude and clutter The Gray Man’s face with green wise to the woes of Orpheus the pallid words of his poem we do not turn; will not turn cut a finger off to make a compass whittle down the failed flesh let it spin, let it spin This is the street where bombs fell in perfect iambic pentameter da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM I am coarse like shrapnel lodged in the sod I am why the trees wish to escape abnormal invading presence I am why your ghost no longer speaks staves of an unfinished song tied in knots syncopated rhythms and a cosmic reunion Take comfort in faith as a companion not in an unmade godhead but in the all-seeing eye holy ward — I am waiting until swallowed by the sallow tears of the heavens hand in hand with a deadened dream
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Do You Look at the Moon When I Look at the Moon?
from Gebo, 2021 A slave to the incandescent eye of fate cast over my body examining each line to draw conclusions that the grandeur of a gilded heart can be dwarfed by existential silence penetrates every droplet of the soaked clouds star-walking choirs pool and chorus their hymn books written in Hebrew when none of them read Hebrew Every page stuck to the one before it turning a corner in the story forces the slab of words to crush and press weak fingers error is, error is marginal intent unknown a country waiting to be discovered when nobody wants it discovered Remain distant, let your mewling echo into a stiff chamber of rib bones wrapping around a diamond rought, cut from the flesh of a grounded angel fallen from the side of the divine, fallen Do you look at The Moon when I look at The Moon? Apocalypse
from Gebo, 2021 Drawn curtains fasten their threads together never to open again the pattern does not complete if not aligned each chink or fold leaning into the other Sun’s eyes flutter to brighten the roads better than a lick of paint better than licking a battery these jolts will restart the traffic if only they can navigate the pot holes and speed bumps via alternate routes This must be what summer feels like And great star, named and unnamed capturing gaze yet the cornea do not burn like they told every froglet instilled in the pond distilled in the factories live it — eat it — pray it — believe it (you better not believe it) this scorching sun sitting in the sky’s thoughts staring down, near enough to give life to a clump of rock this sun, inventing time by parking its arse-cheeks on the ground split pantyhose generate a shadow around revealed flesh Seasons of comfort are in session Goldilocks declares on the street corners of The Republic of Poetry — how it is just right The shy trees are no more — they yell jokes from a cannibalistic book made of their skin each punchline lands an honest mark on the face Somewhere, a statue of a lion whimpers with its thorn-laced paw soothed by the tender talons of a bird of prey — pluck the stick fuck the splinters pluck the crone from the maiden’s head as winds tighten, and tease your throat Twin bridges slumped on the River Tamar filled with silent excuses to bolt their cables into a patch of concrete suspend disbelief that the inanimate can pass for being human tread with caution for a high volume of gendered vehicles pass this way hands from the river claw onto the bank with Mother Tenacity’s affirming grip the body of Babylon scooped up in a length of ribbon dried in a bath towel kissed on the forehead and sung to sleep ‘my bonny lies over a notion…’ where fresh bed sheets touch static against spines a taste of seasonal freedom cruel as the taste of Midsummer Day’s goodnight sleep tight, for now until the turning Distant suns replace the glow of proximity blinking messages through the blackness into Morpheus’s shorthand typed into dark wanderings which countdown to a wake that breaks the mourning seductive dreams coloured in crayon until heat melts the wax sends a hard vibration through mortal pages punctuated by prophecy — the end of all days sat apart blurry are the smiles this is the mask that hides the face of the spectre of things to be sung O GREAT REVELATION! John the Apostle John the Beatle Yer Blues blasts loud into the ear a meeting is scheduled in the living rooms of each depredated domicile dissemination will dictate the insemination of The Saviour or the dragon that fell from a city in the clouds and then silence And then more silence The voiceless assemble in under an hour — rapid response this is it folks the moment THE END OF ALL DAYS HAS COME! Bled realities flatline — leylines narrow every channel dried-up and void The freaks shall inherit the Sun Demand it ends its exercise routine no-more will it rise to offer high-fives to drifting angelic forms no-more will it be eaten by the groves in their grooves as they spin The Sun pricks its finger and sleeps one thousand years cries a thousand more tears which evaporate every millisecond on the burning surface of corruption Floods eventually consume soils a sphere sits on the shoulder of a giant as it trudges through fresh formed swamps the pebble stones of the pavement beat with a time-signature of 4/4 with lots of ghost notes scattered Hovering on the edge of their seats the gods look down chortle and choke it is hard to swallow what remains is a wasteland And the only hope of ascension lies in the footnotes of an unwritten poem a poem worth dying for. |
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