1. |
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|
The sun is a blister in the sky
Sanguine water sprung from everything
Our feral flesh bites its hindlegs
We multiply diseases for delight,
Invent a horrid want, a shameful doubt,
Luxuriate in license, feed on night
This hideous filament dreams
And prays for limestone weeds
The impregnation of ergot in wild grass
The inoculation of stillness into subcutaneous sleep
Over the mass of fire
Over laughter and madness
Over crosses in fields
Over pain and despair
Over rubble and ash
Over the river and the ruined town
|
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2. |
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|
The curse of edification
The plague of empiricism
The trick of the eye of night
Is the terror of the secret heart
The multiplication of envy
Euclidean horrors
Cornices emerge through swarming black clouds
In grand halls
Hidden bodies singing
The brutalities of song
The endlessness of rock
The illusion of arms
Stark white muscle strobing
Sinew swaying like the great weave
Stupefying architectures of pain and brilliance
Embellishment born of rotting flesh
Fated to masticate these swarming black clouds
Flies make the moulding, make the mantle
|
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3. |
Firmament
08:41
|
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4. |
Swathe
08:38
|
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|
The rose that spurts forth from kissing edges
And the milk that never stops running
Incomprehensible laughter is only dimly heard by dawn
Through the thick agony of the night
Silence and concentric fires radiant behind the limit of memory
Distended opulence and the fauns that roam the murky enfilades of the abdomen
In blades that open bodies
The golden shear and the felled lock
The fountains of morning rain down
And the mirror goes dark
Headless forgotten maiden
I see you now
|
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5. |
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|
The three-pronged heart
The hanging droplet of blood sways like a lantern
The penumbral kiss on the gangrene eye
The cataract of rain
The swollen antecedent stream reflects no sky
The labored howling of dogs
Who build homes from burnt planks
Waiting for a latent dawn
|
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6. |
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The trepanation of the great maze within the bull
Born with a veil
Bastions of desire
Stuck in the miry fissure of time
The natural hand
Burned, broken, small and silent
Instruments of waste
Tools of nothingness forever
Hinges that wither
Like petals curling inward
Shying away from light
Braids of open bodies
Like the heavy lines of a tangled chain
Crawling along the ground
Despair and aimless straying
Vacillating through obscure dark arcades
We prostrate in destitute meaningless patterns
Egret faces recede in dark rooms
Like the piling of ash
ALAS, COULD WE HAVE A GOOD DESIRE
IT WOULD BE THIS
WERE THERE A MILLSTONE THE LENGTH AND BREADTH
OF THE WHOLE EARTH
AND SO LARGE IN CIRCUMFERENCE THAT IT TOUCHED EVERY INCH OF THE FIRMAMENT
AND WERE A LITTLE BIRD TO COME AFTER A HUNDRED THOUSAND YEARS
AND PECK FROM THAT STONE A PIECE ONE-TENTH THE SIZE OF A MILLET SEED
AND REPEAT THIS PROCESS ONCE IN EVERY HUNDRED-THOUSAND YEARS
SO THAT IN A MILLION YEARS, A PARTICLE THE SIZE OF A WHOLE GRAIN OF MILLET SEED WOULD BE PECKED OFF THE MILLSTONE,
WE WRETCHES ONLY PLEAD THAT OUR PUNISHMENT WOULD COME TO AN END WITH THE END OF THAT STONE,
AND EVEN THIS CANNOT BE
|
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