Archives for posts with tag: fleeting pixel no. 457

Cracks appearing in the face of God, and cracks in His hands where plants creep through | A vivid silence before the wings | open, a dove | whisks flight from raw labour, a mind | beats concepts from the edge | of a nap, animals | fleeing the oasis when a shadow | appears on the ground among them | Histories of important errors | Mistakes that shaped a generation | a genealogy of detours to | a mislaid route, an abandoned journey | Waterbirds and waterbeads | Ahead in time, other people are waking in my night | and out of the hollowed | carcases of angels | baby stars | crawl and cry | how they plead | to fall into the knowledge | we may have of them | Rationing our chances | stuffing spring | into our winter corners | pockets | of dereliction | we call the axioms | or Sparta or Rhodes | an entire volume | of lore or rules or codes | the zenith | the kingpin’s | grenades | the apex | the much ado | the dog’s true | diamond bollocks | missed in the flutter of a motion detector | Somesuch notion | Not anything

Putting down the Venice of the Doge, the war for lost liberties | a ladybird upon your coat sleeve | A glitch in the moon | “Although nobody asks to be born, many ask to die” | does that | come here? | or later? | or not | at all? | Our | affair | Lashed together on the ropes of dark glances, lovers | climbing a mountain, but no, really, climbing hours, and not anything | they think otherwise | In other words | a different synopsis | a separate agenda | Moments of vision | torn and foxed | the paper yellowing | Delirium near the summit | strangers walking among our party | and the snow | whisked to bliss and near | oblivion | The truth is a loneliness | a failure | inadequacy | The truth is a lady, a boat | trip down a secluded | river in summer, 1896 | But mostly, yes, failure | Add distance, fakery, fuzz… | A child, separated from the caravanserai | in a dust storm | taken by bandits or sheer | indifference | Not recorded | Never opened | Boredom and a memory of woods | on a freighter near Betelgeuse | Chapter 7: The Ladybird and the Sleeve, Again | Your lips, are you | sleeping? | Setting out on the Silk Road | Samarkand | What war makes of the bombed-out churches | where once the Lord | awaited virgins | and hours appointed | for communion | arrived | Picking up Frankenstein


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)
(this poem, September 2013)

Cracks appearing in the face of God, and cracks in His hands where plants creep through | A vivid silence before the wings | open, a dove | whisks flight from raw labour, a mind | beats concepts from the edge | of a nap, animals | fleeing the oasis when a shadow | appears on the ground among them | Histories of important errors | Mistakes that shaped a generation | a genealogy of detours to | a mislaid route, an abandoned journey | Waterbirds and waterbeads | Ahead in time, other people are waking in my night | and out of the hollowed | carcases of angels | baby stars | crawl and cry | how they plead | to fall into the knowledge | we may have of them | Rationing our chances | stuffing spring | into our winter corners | pockets | of dereliction | we call the axioms | or Sparta or Rhodes | an entire volume | of lore or rules or codes | the zenith | the kingpin’s | grenades | the apex | the much ado | the dog’s true | diamond bollocks | missed in the flutter of a motion detector | Somesuch notion | Not anything

Putting down the Venice of the Doge, the war for lost liberties | a ladybird upon your coat sleeve | A glitch in the moon | “Although nobody asks to be born, many ask to die” | does that | come here? | or later? | or not | at all? | Our | affair | Lashed together on the ropes of dark glances, lovers | climbing a mountain, but no, really, climbing hours, and not anything | they think otherwise | In other words | a different synopsis | a separate agenda | Moments of vision | torn and foxed | the paper yellowing | Delirium near the summit | strangers walking among our party | and the snow | whisked to bliss and near | oblivion | The truth is a loneliness | a failure | inadequacy | The truth is a lady, a boat | trip down a secluded | river in summer, 1896 | But mostly, yes, failure | Add distance, fakery, fuzz… | A child, separated from the caravanserai | in a dust storm | taken by bandits or sheer | indifference | Not recorded | Never opened | Boredom and a memory of woods | on a freighter near Betelgeuse | Chapter 7: The Ladybird and the Sleeve, Again | Your lips, are you | sleeping? | Setting out on the Silk Road | Samarkand | What war makes of the bombed-out churches | where once the Lord | awaited virgins | and hours appointed | for communion | arrived | Picking up Frankenstein


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)