Where Will The Wash Take Us?


Brain against moonlight
Still this youth is hard to find
When was life this easy?
When was I this hard?
Cushion the heart
Frame the speech
Is it far enough that I don't need a map?
Ah! I don't know anymore
Have those saints been marching?
They left an awful mess again
And my bed is oh so lonesome
Like a bright fire with no one to keep warm
I don't know much anymore
I never knew anything of this sort
Easiness was the rule
Confiscated direction
There is enough syllable there!
Have we come far enough?
Oh! People, I don't know
Oh! Angels play your games
We are all dying to see you
Dying to hear those birds
And when the stillness surrounds
I wonder where our neighbours are
What town we have come to
Blandness and brightness
Brilliantness and heaviness
Get into what you have forgotten
Unite every blurred scene
From every blurred memory
And I will visit you at night
I will knock at your jungle windows
I will climb your city trees
Smiles from killers
Farmers wives shaking hands
Fingering the soil for damp
Feasting on the wine and music
Should we mock the poet
Knock at his door and creed
Feel the hues that spread like light
There is no forrest fire
Mere rumour has claimed you
And the tan line that smiles at us
With greasy sweat making us shine
A note against the hand
Written in scrawl and ink
Will the wash take us to Africa?
Where the vines grab at quartz
Somewhere inside we wait
And we know we need you
We call your name to invoke you
You scare us but we still hang to your dress
No, please do not go
I need you


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Lake Daff-Dilly

Image
Fish on the water Scales floating back and forth Grey clouds hanging high White clouds beneath A naked man asleep Drowsy with whiskey Strange sunlight on his calves His chest slowly rising, slowly falling The smell of wild herbs Smoke from the kitchen fire Sex on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly Old myths talk of death The women think of birth Some wish they could leave The men pray on boats Trout stumble in their wake Drunk on the water's cold The flies were made by old hands The rod belonged to a dead uncle God I hope there is more whiskey The fire is still going I want you on old blankets Lost on Lake Daff-Dilly
Read more

Blind Me And Guide Me

Image
What is it you want me to believe in? Is it the flock of birds flying like joined roses floating The peak of sensual age? I turn Twenty Nine and the climax is mine The plea of a generation held together by torture? The torture of the prophets- Whitman, he nurses us Is it the course touch of a hand roughened by sand and rock? The path that applauses every step to Sodom The generous buddhist- bearded with eyes closed? In bed with the russian before dawn, We Let Him Down! The cold winter warmed by cynicism and a centuries irony? You can warm my arse with your country charm The poets lining their pockets with fools gold? Lining up to be shot by the artists- a war with out generals The skeleton with eyes to the stars? Awake and noticing how the apple never rots Is it the shop keeper that keeps everything shaded? The man who keeps a statue of Apollo at the bottom of his pool The mongrel God of Egypt and Babylon? So large his nose was singed by the sun Is it the song of hope written in the s
Read more

Whose Language Will I Speak?

Image
Allow me a little time to rest the clamour Upon the contours of your form The mirror gaze within your reply Will flash and fall and rise and build response Verbal shouts and gutteral groans In my room we both are right In hotels we are wrong Where will we die? Where will we scatter? Face down, lovers bodies, Russian grasses, Russian ice Before that I will paint you I will bury you in colour, on canvas While you tell me of your youth Of chasing birds and pretending you could fly The clamour is merely collection of one stands A collection of songs Trapped within my head, resting on your form And the guardian angles are sculpted into the architecture And I can see beautiful shade below your stomach As your leg is raised and it is an arch One to hold and make prayers from As I bow down and taste the flesh of man What will happen to us? Where will you die? You who was born to the poet and the siren Where will I go? Me, the hunter who has yet to return from the hi
Read more