Aargh 3

If i could perfect sadness and mis-strategy into a line,
if i could distill unhinged meaning into salvation truths,
if i could re-justify this barren sunlight,
these worthless trembling hands,
these unworn, rotting clothes,
into dream-frocked material, for a misjudged play,
padded within the starlit-night of the train-station isled in the prarie darkness,
an image-mongering tramp calling out to noone
for reciprocation, half-simulated, alcohol-mad,
as the rich train of forgetting experiences,
of lighted eaten dinners and speeding laughter
laps into the scenery of prescient, unduly life,
as it pours like sugar trucks into dessert that
spoils the tastebuds of grinning faces,
justified, growing, schooled in railways
and bustling interchanges, these pinpoints of fleeting life,
a hub of bulbed men, of plant life, of station pebbles, what then,
of this prating significance?

Filled in this broken otherworldly tower,
craning at the stars, and speaking,
the way wolves and moths did before man was invented,
where life still fell into the darkness of pines,
or the shell-shocked fingers of the heart still felt the movement of rivers,
where natures infinite tombs lay overgrown with life,
when trumpets still sounded as each morning arose casting the neck of woods,
where these carpets laced with salt once framed the floor of the sea,
oh i would grow like the prudent flower anticipating the flush of spring,
as the cycles lose their spirit, eroding.

II

Thirty trumpets girding the mead of
sighing rivers,
callousing the routed veins of
spring-drawn utopia.

The melting glaciers
expose large crags in the
dented rocks, slight against the sun,
gesturing with stillness,
yarned like twigs aginst the noon,
sharpened to the breath of winter evening.

This industrial sooth,
like a touristperson,
grading images for length and breadth
of intensity, that barren holdout
of the transparent, colourless soul,
the nonexistent scarecrow,
the binned up brooms,
the yore-flecked wavering of
disappearing lines.

Sand and sealife,
they burrow against the vast sweeping of the sea,
feeding with alacrity
on the melancholy dunes.
The wrecks of rusted ships
sit on the coarse pebbly sand,
like a hornless Poseidon,
reduced, reduced, reduced.

I am in my room again,
with the translucent curtains that pour
deceiving sunlight into the refuted
present. The wind still breathes its
tragedy tune, with the soreness of
codas, a chronicle of lavatory existences,
and incomplete plastic walls
as we face mirrors, defacating.

The statue of Liberty,
a kind of green embodied hope,
a disappearing miasma,
choked up Athens,
a ceilingless St Pauls,
that crumpled before everything, and nothing,
the captured sunlight of a certain skillful kind,
resovoirs of men,
fish-hope, like the promise of an edible breakfast of life.
And so the morning lasts,
the softness of time left untouched
or unheard by the throbbing madness
that seams at stilting, violated, happy glasswalls.

The pizza cooks in the oven.
The flatmates speak of studying as a means
to truer things.
The shutting out of avenues that pulse tar-stroked
thoughts that usher the sights and crows,
the lights, of unbottled time.
Disbarred. My cap. My cap.