Images 2

I

I do not live in the real world. I only exist in relation to it by means of distorting words and gestures.

II

I stood on the groupside,
wading the footsteps of voices
that drew deeper tides with every breath,
skimming the light of the sun,
unbeached in the fresh shallows of the sea.

It was the tuneless drum of spring or
the tremor of branched hands reaching
an unhidden face, as it called in pregnant tones,
to the deathless hearing.

What growth, like an expanding shrine,
uncreeked these pastured boundaries,
ploughing untilled forests of thought?
What life, ungiven,
yet praying, brought heart to fruition,
through the unripening present?

Fluting, the treeglade yearns for morning,
its shadows spilling into memories
of deep-set innocence, as the finger
leaves the empty pipe.

III

From my window, I can see the trashbins.
Enormous plastic tubs, they
squat in a curved row,
missionary brothers awaiting
gulps of empty bottles,
shattering in recycling bowels,
like digestive guardians of
nature's wasting laws.

The bottle says:
A gateway leads to an opening,
to which we travel through.
A tunnel-visioned version,
carved with cold statues.
Stairways shuffle the darkness,
full of karmic stench,
feeding the fruitbats overhead,
depleting the insects and the ratmen.

IV

I feel lyrical in the mornings, when the force of memories have yet to flood the sandbanks of my dreams.

The mind still contorts with self-appreciating delight, as it skips deftly across cloudy waters.

Lily-like, they spring, infusing solitude with intoxication of poppies.

No slumbering crocodiles here, or fear of bad weather, or mismatched circumstance,
just the pure delight of a slow-filling river,
draining away as I lap at its shores.

V

Am I happy with myself,
for suprising myself so?
What lovely satisfaction,
to live in a mirror.

VI: A seminar postscript

Fighting the urge to
breathe liberation in choking
suitcases packed into a room,
I observed those
keyboard lips parting with
wholesome words, from the
crochet of teeth, stained with tobacco
and wine, and filled with pomegranates of the brain:
they scatter, these blithe, yellow seeds,
as we pick them up, like birds,
as love scatters, fiery love.

To witness that desirable
Tory male, harting forth with rugby confidence,
all-consuming in the full possibility,
within the scope of his strong-armed body.
And theres that
supersensitive white-skinned boy,
who trembles with affectation,
the moment one speaks, as if
my life, my world, insulted his.

Yes, these irrepressible grand coats,
lent to the cloakroom,
these chess-pieced girls, streaming
smoothly down to all-consummation:
I watched, slumping chairlessly.

VII: Work

Work is a kind of anticipation,
the stair-steps with hollows
in between, in some flowing church
we happen to find ourselves.

An imposition, we
mount the spiral of days, impervious
to the windowless night,
wreathed in loads of labour.

What attends the imageless vision,
as legs smooth ancient marble carpets?
What greater promise keeps,
to poor eyes that suck at light?

Only sunlight,
uncaved by heavens,
or the silent stars,
loving, communicating.
Or the rhythmic breathing
of crisp garden evenings,
as you peer hopefully,
into nothing.