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The wrench into what we are
Of what could be
Looking for the reflection of desire
... and the room illuminated
Through flickering glances
... each game. No
Possible moment but that :
Cleaving like the setting sun
The blood red moon, the tree'd horizon
Or the thin shaking line of water.
The limbs ...
... and in a green field brown cattle
Eating
... oh jesus but there can't be any
... can this be written again?
... the memory of love
smeared across our bellies
The cat purred, loudly, pleased
To be allowed to watch. She
... of her cunt
And of her prick
Pink ...
...texture
But only in dreams
Can there be such openness
What is done
Flesh veiled by fear
... said it did not matter if no one ever read the poem, nor even if the poet forgot the poem before it was written, or of the poet was not even aware of the poem, but dreamt it and then forgot the dream. The poem had existed, and had influence upon the world. A true reader would discover it, read it from its consequences in the world. Such readers, unfortunately, were rare; but, then, so too, were poems.
Can a poem exist on its own, anymore than a person can, was another saying.
Every little bit of language
And every sung phrase, each
Trace of music and of light, the touch
The smell, the low rumblings and
The heat and cold, the shape, even
Of our own bodies: can
This be lost?
How prodigal in this is being
How greedy the big mouth.
... what cannot change
Is all that glittering play
It is said often that he was the last speaker of the language, the last to sound it fully as it should. After his death, the language fell silent.
... the city of painters ...
the city of poets
the city of actors
the city of wine-sellers
... all silenced
... that lovely belly of appetite
... a film of moisture
Transfiguring hot flesh
... like food dropping
From an old woman's mouth
... he sang in Old Compton St
... with raised buttocks & much grimacing
Like a pair of nervous mangabeys
... he and her like a ...
Projected like old dreams
... at evening
Last ripples luminous
at evening
Last ripples bleed out the night
at evening
Last ripples glow like words briefly
each goes with each
the lions mix & mate
pad across to check the spoor
each one knows
of where it is king
& how full you deserve
to be of flesh
oh proud beasts!
how savage are your grace & love
how can we say that we are fit
to vanish within your godlike jaws
or even be brushed
by the fear of your cold & hungry gaze