Of the end
Seems to be
Littoral noise
Wash down the eucharist with water
A euthanising silence
strychnine
Key to Eugenics
Truth is the key to life and indignation.

And the farmyard faints dying for
All pain being old
all localised
When seen through Gryphon sighs
Dark cries
Shrilled
Permanence with fever
And if all time is a sign of
how hard we want to push
ourselves
Recognition stillborn from visibility
Here on our way to our marketplace
All sound quietens you
What happens to the waterfront
I thought that maybe you forgot that all
strangeness is degrees of
self-possession
Globes of truth
being fulfilled
through trust
shunted through the doors of sleep
Exhaustive days spent
through our beautiful
sadness
Where winds are denizens
that cringe before us
Osmosis.Sucking on
the future's brains
and evil begs
to be carried on your
back.
All languidity is cloying
through its languor
I smell the foretaste of the sunrise.

Anorexic faces like
frozen tulips
have adorned the security cameras
of my shop windows
White hair floats around like age,
melting
hardening
on our times
where people view winter as change
as any change will do
Turn on the television
there's no light in this room
and soak up the radiation
in this land of cold fish
kisses.
Words huddled together
on a whispering white wall
infusing images of space as the
dimension never known.
Disinterested, all of you lie
bedraggled
on these nascent hills of ask
before they miscarry
and there you lie
Flies on an infected river
Blessings by way of seedless children
you gift to the earth
which accepts
with the mute politeness of a host.
It's the child of the desiccated world
which releases this tepid warning
and the sound of a child
screaming is but the
echo of screaming hooves.

Asylums and hospitals
are for the once
respected
For me, it is the reality beneath the music
the reality that forces you to sit and think
Tomorrow
reminds me of how good today is
My now phantasmagoric eyes
impinge images on me that
slide like sweat off glass
slowing me
as I wait for ideas
not realising that it is
thinking and not the thought
that made me a poet.
How strange is it to be a resurrected poet
No feeling but impassion
No thoughts but frames
Strange as an automation
Unaffected the dead poet rises
unloved
unloving
still dead
The vicious backlash of creativity
The voice of a naked poet
lies alone
like a pregnant sore
stringing loneliness
except for the friendship of
maggots and the bloody rocks
on which it looks forth
on existence
and weeps
for it cannot hit.

Age is made up of
forgotten hopes crawling back.
True sadness is the thought
of when you were happy
The day I know I'll never be god to you
I'll die
Until then I'll watch
Tiring out years in my mental wings
dropping pellets of
frustration
not fear
for fear is the fire to which we
turn for a little
magic.

Your memories can be eased away
But mine will last me through many summers
Send me to a place
where only raw blood will stain the mind
for that's all people think about
and say: there's a man in my kitchen
kill him
before he kills my appetite
for death has lost it's tragedy

To a place where the lights
are shutting right about now
and fairies
their skins like naked crocuses
start to play
and as they approach
with their vague smiles
the sky spews dark
water like an orgasmic fountain
and I lie strapped to my anger
People bob their heads like puppets
boredom blooming out of their hands in sweat.
To a place where animals
spew madness out like
money. Greedily.
And then I'll know my true value
as a saint
for here we are just getting fatter.

I have danced with ferocity
on the desert of the past
I have spat from the spoon of caution
Darkness has danced for me as my
concubine
flittering away
But God will protect me
for I am alone
Revenge is the propeller on which the
angels wings are cut
Suddenly
the blood drips
the earth will continue not to scare me
For I am a lonely child
Glass becomes a predator in this land of titanium
silences
I walk
the only truth
the only
reality
gushing through my blood
Loneliness is addictive.

Purblinded by a large tropical hate
guided by a chain-light of sorrow
lamp-headed poets and writers
whisk away their childhood
in the garden of quilted thoughts
Commiserate with their resident ineptitude
A self-confessed blamelessness
Grounding -
the ability to float
I have laid amongst these
Plants house-earthed
and my sorrow itself stands shaken
matted against an empty sensitivity
Frozen on the upside of the moon-shivers
Sinking in this slough
in a subterfuge
Everything shines against the stark
Heterodox: the long wait to silence.

The man in his word
In his word does he lay
and the pictures prettier
than people in life's despair
Shall I ever leave this desk
and fix my sights on a better place
shake these drops from my eyes
Seek my place in a child's discussion
where sorrow
fright
love and delight
are no common medium
Is it a world more peaceful than death?

Such is the wild song
Sung to man so tame
but from birth to death
had a joyful day yet?
Where are those fortunes
in the tales of conquest
of toil and sweat
to gain a kingdom
that a man refused gold
and that curse upon him held
In poverty or vanity
is it a curse or a blessing
of sin yet chaste
now what is left
but the old dark sun
where each man is young.