from Becoming

By | 1 March 2015


I pierced a whale-song with our living, manufactured
in the sobriety of Discontent. Candied language
brewing in stuck tics – nose the tide you take me for.
Disembodied disembarked. The wind waves a little
dive over the cut finger, convenient Neanderthal
flesh gets gulped by the dream of the living.
As though poetry is where it’s really “at”.
Lilac scales drip out of the dreaming mouth: fish
oracle. Window daughter divines an exclamation mark
out of NO PRISON out of unclaimed time. And the
solarised cup smashes on the tinder of our wanting
unknown & precise & beautiful though we keep
it to ourselves, like we hardly reveal to each other
the frill of our cunts. Pale plastic saints of blind
asking. How do oranges levitate on water. A room
is a planet a heart is a dildo an alabaster is a torn
strip running. Endless whys make up our childhood
& we’ve forgotten the answers. Sun nudges his
vertebrae into a flower rodded with pink inferno
smear. Elastic breathes a taut sigh, as we do.
We = forced to sup a brawl lament. We =
stacked on knowledge gaping. The index turns
& whirs: ah energetic starting again with each
morning ah self-index recovering from a blunt
line. Creep across the earth in full bliss-ignorance,
too starved to fake it. I am only ever the blue throttle
when she comes through me
shinning my guts like so many solar panels
Flash of silver Eyes & hard engagement she rinses all
intensity with her own pearl blankness, engorged
with flowers & riding over the dashed day with hooks
for frowns with sallow weeds for trophies with poverty
for aces with battered words for armour, she is bound
to charge across each of our faces at the battle-lines,
unrecognized in flame

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