In the skeleton of things between us | grass grows up through the bones | but then the grass, too…

Office buildings, railway stations, late night drives through countryside | scented with sugar beet and arable boredom | the cars with their Gothic interiors | cathedrals of moments, the burst of seedheads | torn red leather of the corpses of those journeys | back to friends’ houses, or to strangers’ houses where the parties lay | in wait like ambushers | the forests of beds dripping with oils and gums and dew | dawn entirely mislaid | mists where apes hoot and grunt | and rare birds with electric yellow feathers | squawk their part of the synopsis for your grounds | limp vines of dope smoke and vodka | The mountain skull…

The track through the jungle of our “affair” | the intestines of the river, small boats being quietly digested | caught on shoals, their bottoms ripped out on boulders | circa 1900 in a society | draped in a bridal veil, a fever | disguised as a society | Obsolete mining equipment…

Messages sent, puffs of coloured smoke | pigeons with information attached to their ankles | the intricate strings of semaphores | flashes of telescopes | quarries and pits, graves and dumps | Missile crises…

Languishing | The gigantic peach of a colony | bitten to reveal the pit | the sentinel abandoned his post | Grasshopper on the eyelid | The subject, with its vertical rivers of memory, flowing in two directions, in circles, two waters | both adverse and complex | currents both cold and lukewarm | reversing and surging | the bodies of past selves floating and hanging, turning and sinking | the gangster and the priest | the actress and the writer | tangled in the skeletons of grass | and the tears of bone that rattle as they fall | on pages of stuffy literature | Victorian triple decker | modernist masterpiece | post-modern epic of indeterminism and non sequiturs | The skull, sitting upright on the road, driving through the tunnel of the eye-socket | coming back here as to | a dreary provincial town | where one’s…

And you can say “sick at heart”

And you can say “Sunday”

The sky slopes and down it slide | tiny jigsaw pieces of stars | I wish to book passage as soon as possible | my head is cluttered with tusks | and I woke to find | my soul had become an empty warehouse

I made you an adversary because of the courage of your luxury | the pleasure in your life, the wit, the spines of skyscrapers crumbling | only where the iris floats loose from a kiss | the eyelids flutter | only there and then | just at the moment of dawn | did I escape my rigid whey-faced churches | the cemeteries compiling records of tasks | properly accomplished | all absent and correct | through the powder-cloud balls of artillery smoke | the futile grind of nations | after the symphony, always the battle | the way roses are turned to uniforms | and Sunday lies in a field like a discarded wheel | perhaps not even then | or there…

The summer steamer and the hollow pomp and bluster of a military band | parasols taught lessons by the swirling gale | a mound of broken marriages and celebrity vampires and prams | sallow love bites the colour of rotting avocados on the necks and breasts | of hovering teens | so hot even the gold is going off | like milk neglected on the burning sill | and rest, eyes bulging | having taken our jolly poison | idiots clapping at the dull magician | displaying the bleeding parts of the limbs he’s sawed | admiring the sequins on the lady’s bodice | yes, you can | go to Manhattan

I need to be stretchered | I am anxious to leave as soon as possible

Please take me on board

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

 

Advertisements