Listen, o poet, to this marvel of the night. ert-pksh-ert-pksh-ert-pksh: berlin with its pockets full of vomit a narrow orderly line after a fashion which is to shock, not enlighten when God said kill the boy, please explain Listen, o poet, to this marvel of day: That a kiss may soften Medusa’s heart only to concretize the words deferred this is adaptation. this is a schedule of tides this is the space we long for in the middle of the day. In the long bright plain of the day, far from the night and the dangerous sea you were watching the clock when it stopped melting onto a leafless branch. Listen to the stars dropping and the frost, filling the rock with crystals finds a voice and sings poet oh! glorious poet your song of death, lovlier than the moon’s cold light fracture’s unloved this emptied heart Hear the moon and crackle of the stars as they light the night the poet is hunkered down, scribbling, drowning words in blue ink, he writes so loud he cannot hear sounds and remembers too late the prickle, the slow licking of flame the sun’s tongue on the clouds this silky soft and furry possum – all pink and grey and bushy-tailed - is in fact the living shape of heavy breathing late hour lust, the sort that jangles the phone and destroys your mind. a mind destroyed from too much thinking; too many broken thoughts and discarded poems listen … listen … the horsehair brush loaded with white pauses above the lit candle … whisper … whisper… the sound of your name just turns me on Listen, o listener, to this wonder wrought by starlight. A poet spills his seed, and in the tree, the watching owl laughs contentedly. For it is enough, at least, for tonight.
Listen, o poet, to this marvel of the night.
14 December 2009