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#1
From the Rain in the North (Avarice)

The shrine feeds us,
we are joined by the same spirit.
A distant perusal;
the great refusal.
No regrets.
You are only making it worse,
wrong speech
wrong, wrong everything!
Nothing has changed.

There’s nothing more you can bring forth;
my lips are nice and dry.
I feel like killing time.
I feel aggressive.
I know what the body
is for;
I don’t have much grasp
with reality.
What is there to talk about?
You say:
“I don’t owe you anything”;
serpent man,
you try but fail.

Don’t reach for the gun
too quickly;
The owls and the ravens
entwine too foolishly-
a sense of discomfort.
I have come one with the asphalt
and drown without prominence.

Don’t get carried away,
feel no shame for what you are
nor no shame for what you were;
grace is what matters.
A fearless composition;
the hollow seed
springs into our conscious:
the autocratic existence;
the closing rapture.
Have a drink
till you are no longer speaking.
The black garment
is lifted. A lapsing death;
a sigh of joy.

The Queen of Heaven
hangs gently
on the promontory.
Reverse. It is not of God.
The demons grind us down.

Visions and repetition;
a tattered Invocation,
the humming of the Lord
is brought to a stand still,
wherein the evening circle.
We gather around the frozen river
on a deserted garden.
The ancestral dance
calls several kingdoms.

A maiden stood in terror,
she said and replied:
“Tired superstitions
reside within me.
This is the formal pattern;
you should go back
the same way you came.”

Arrive on the road
with all your friends,
Lord, that’s the right time
between the primitive terror.


The aether
arises within itself,
on the outskirt of wilderness-
you were not there,
little did I care;
a different shade
to appear.

Here comes the bride
and retarded children
gradually towards
the perpetual origin;
the distinctive progression
for young lovers.

A clattering voice
a clattering soul.
Little one
you’ve been patient with me.
Sometimes you burn.
There’s no father,
there’s no healer-
I prefer to pretend they do not exist.
It is a delusion,
it impedes speech.
I know how I began
and how I end.



Concordant (Greet Carol for me)

To seek of another land
where the white heat gathered,
from an obscure darkness- all at once.
What was now is, not at all
a Cartesian vortex;
the undiscovered country.
A fruit tree stands against
the fetid air, at times
the distraction.

From the morning
the crowds came flocking;
a deeper communion
yet, they are conscious of nothing.

To comply
with second grace
was as concordant
as a plough and hammer.
They shout and sing praise,
praises of the weaved fists;
they alone push and prod.
Strange voices, murmuring
beneath the dry contours
of gentle dust;
the fractured tavern
upon the tide and unto the sea,
and grief yielded no further.

It is hard to explain
of things lost in water;
the concave peril,
jagged and frail.
Eternal life; a sigh of joy
hurrying near, I gain
and linger upon the river.
Oh such waters,
largely wasted.
Ignorance and movement,
the least of the unmooring water;
coast to coast.

Though I sang with my chains,
though I’m unable to bend my neck.
Incision and meditation;
I'm down there, I'm down there.
Play for voices in the back street
and fall meek with tradition.

“Peter, there's nothing again to fear;
time has held me”,
thus spoke the fading belle.

We were lead on by half-men
six feet onwards!



The Age of Reason

An old man once stood
outside the Brewer’s window
precarious and unkempt.
Suddenly, uplifting his finger
he said unto me:
“Where have you been
oh blind son?
You speak and abstain-
lest we forget?
Wait for the morning
and affirm all that is harvest;
the finite rotation
occludes the barren fields.
The seed grows secretly
where the phoenix rises;
let it be.

“I want you to know
one thing; all is well.
The stars are no longer acknowledged.
All is lumber, with a moments rest
it remains clear, tightly woven
with a certain precocity.
You seek of Madame Hyle
where she once stood;
the parallel lining
on the hour of resignation.
But all you find, dear son,
is me. Renaissance
remains immaterial;
there’s no revolution,
not here.
You may resent what you will;
we are guilty of the same things.
You may choose to refrain
but you must sustain;
sustain yourself
dear son!”

His face remains unrecognisable
indeed, he kept his secrets well;
outside the Brewer’s window
conceals a drunken soul.