As the tight clouds roll under the parapet of the greyscale frustration
of an Anglican’s decrepit angles,
the sea foam spray, monosyllabic abuse of gulls
and the bulbous, severed and bubonic limbs of street rats with wings
and the wailing high-end feedback rays of microphones held to formless lips
all sing out in crescendo to the skies invisible stars.
And the song is a clamour in my heart like the churning gears of brutal honesty
and wage labour slavery
and the blinding black edges of the cumulus, that aren’t there,
send my gaze inward
and inwardly I draw upon your angelic visage, like the morning star,
as though you were sent to bite my apple and release me
from the loose groincloth of vines
and surrender me to the tight jockstrap of iron
but outwardly, marble and detritus only, there, in our scrap heap heaven,
and inwardly I writhe upon the thought of simply touching fingertips.
As these loose lips of mine that loop a spittle lather of sud-like vowels,
soft kisses blown through a monsoon of tidal distance,
and the silence, carried between us as light waves
and the fickle fates and twisted wills of parasitic judicial authorities
and the echoes of lamb-like slaughtered victims
all weep quietly in cacophony to the luscious slowly lapping lakes of earlobe.
And the tongues of the Thames are covered in salt and lick upon my wounds
and the blinding white lines that crack through my ignorance
And outwardly all I can do is to keep myself the Fool (not the Hermit), this time,
for all the humiliating attributions of self,
as though love and life and love and also life were forever biting on my cuticles
but inwardly, knowing the significance of Emotion (and Truth),
crying out to cyborg dreams to flesh-form and immortalise my love,
for us to share as pet and prisoner.
Legs alive, flailing;
Encumbered black full of night and water.
Faces, stuck in mud, stuck in places,
smudged and brittle – leaning over.
World of meat and leather,
Pregnant with void, weeping and then
swallowing – weeping again.
A crescent of light, shot through a glass
wrapped with dew and sunshine.
A dribble of blood here, and a dribble
of mucus there – all is still and
A smudge on skin and a splash of
lonely liquid – dark and biting – on grit
and stone. The bard knows the end,
jellified tongue, morose cinder of
contempt wax-like engraved into
flesh. No longer weeping –
the stain is set. The outside has
ended – seeped in.