Thursday, March 08, 2007

From "thirsty poems"

not jumping

the helicopter watching over us like this star
does or does it the way we imagine it to be
the plane face of a sun which we face;
the open eye of a very ancient watchfulness
which never never slumps like laundry across its
formica desk whilst, in plain view on grey monitors
men in masks (or women) slip by with military
ease about them; spot lights turned on in wards

my attention not then drawn to the grotesque
stampeding of the hedge row now purple and olive
‘midst the amenable slabs of neolithic (?) rock
rotten with fossil bits and prehistoric worms
and, this peculiar process of attention, shifting (no!
not jumping, I cannot testify to jumping) seemingly
at will, it makes my belly, glow like a whisky, mack

later, streets dipped in a dark glistening whose
amorphous and organic facets give of colour
like a black diamond that has been softened with
soaking—oxyacetylene blossoms up on con-
crete cornices of the bureau show the curious emblem
like a veil not lifted but twitched in a tant-
ta-li-sing way: a large lemur-eyed cruise-ship
bulking above crossed sticks or switches, just in bud
and the immortal motto. “to the microlite!”...
Post a Comment