Winged Thoughts in the Age of Air

Month: July, 2014



If such a night can
end, begin again
in daylight a new
contract with the sun
out of my black
experience I can say
nothing in this world
is less than one.

If you are returning
through the rain
I’ll light a candle
with a brilliant ray
set it before your
image to behold
your ever-open eyelids
made of gold.

Cyclicity in all
this is the faith
I learn from you
O light that fills this place.
The fractured earth
was broken in the Fall
yet your returning
has the circle’s grace.

Industrial Park


Hypnotic reflections
from glass cliffs
confuse the one
who enters this Gobi
anonymous desert
crawling with demons
animals from bad dreams
sliding about.

Look, a snake
of at least six storeys
resembles a grey wall
flexing scales;
lost in its coils
away from the sun
you smell the beast
with diesel-breath.

Serpent, fire-extinguisher
red, stone-eyed
yours are the
roundabouts, hissing evil
the buildings in dark
glasses whispering lies
along these avenues
of a doomed garden.

Anything ambulatory
is condemned.
In these dunes where
everything is identical
grains of sand and
particulates flying
strike against
unblinking lidless eyes.

This god still flicks
a forked tongue
in your face lined
as a crumpled map.
The dazzling sun of
the businessmen
makes no sense
to the living.

Black Song Of Gilgamesh III


Bewildering Enkidu
wild-thing of the hill
bear-sturdy, wooly-locked
tangle-maned leaping
cataracts; kneeling
to kiss tranquil lake;
long-distance runner
with wolfpack; racer
in silent glades with
deer-flock through
midsummer woods;

Enkidu, shaggy-headed
sunchild, enigmatic
facing-down stags
on misty ridges
green-eyed drinker
from torrents, enduring
moonlit marathons
over cedar-country;
at mountain-pools
slaking wolf-thirst
jostling gazelles

Who do not shun him
as deerhunters
ranging the evergreens;
who chance on Enkidu
godlike, androgynous
come on the wildman
bear-tracking, panic
completely, report back
with tales always taller
becoming legends
in Uruk, exaggerated

By poets who overdo
overpaint the Pashupati
as: ‘Eater-of-Cress, Vastly-
Matted Brother-of-Lions’
and so on, imaging
race-memories of Edenic
the Adamu once more
seeming to city-dwelling
modern Sumerians

‘Shamhat, if you can
corrupt the pure thing
galloping with animals
in wildernesses bring him
to to great-walled Uruk
we’ll see if two insanities
can go hand-in-hand
as lovers, become twins;
if innocence to power can
stand equal and opposite.
Catch us a Zikru, O Harlot!

Ladybird on the Ink-bottle


Ladybird on the ink-bottle:
somehow she got well-
splattered with black.

Woman as Hole-in-the-Wall


intercourse is coming
(sponsored by
the sperm-banks).

Slide His Membership
into the slot
punch in the number of
your personal beast

Choose from replicant
girlfriend or dominatrix
sense that air-cooled
flesh behind the steel.

Tweak preferences
from the display:
touchscreen of vivid

Here’s the encyclopaedia
of her undressing: now
you, in the soundproof
convenience of heaven

Gasp as extreme
icons of arousal flash
as three-dimensional
rainbow dancers reel.

Reclining aftermath is
optional and extra:
please adjust your
dress for sub-reality.

The Cat who Tickles the Evening-star



The cat who tickles
the evening-star
with her tail as she travels
a twilight wall
in cold blue air
four-legged ballerina
electric princess
who finds me amusing
exemplifies something
in her character
not only enigmatic
grace and clairvoyance
warm milky fur on
nocturnal patrol, perhaps
sardanapalian duality
become compliant
the tiger reduced to
manageable dimensions.



Timothy Treadwell
wildman, lone
soliloquising zoomaniac
singsong shaman
of the labyrinth
popstar recording
his masterpiece.

In a wilderness
like a subconscious
Tim’s flow on-camera
warm, self-conscious
sometimes: Treadwell
seems narcissistic
saint with the urge
to love beasts.

A hyperborean
peninsula landscape:
take-two for the
sake of permanence.
Running in realtime
Timothy smiles
freestyling in the
Canadian tundra.

Wonderfully sane
Timothy on earth
Christopher Robin
on strong acid
sentry of Eden
serenader of bears:
grizzly-eaten man
of the far north.

Metropolitan blonde
refugee with
drug histories.
(Out comes delivery
In middleground
a Kodiac watches

Timothy’s back
for him, hell-bent
spitting lyrical hymns
on the precipice.
Take it again: tripod
stand ready
like a tree guarding
life on earth!

Poet of suicidal
clips, Tim giggles
as Teddy enjoys
a full spinal massage
nine-foot mother
up against a pinetree
tracking mad Treadwell
with hairy grin

The beardance of
shapeshifting Timothy
who hibernates shyly
from time to time
confesses himself
on celluloid, goes
public, tells of risk:
the outside chance.

Here’s Tim singing
sunshine lullabies
to a Kodiak female
lying on her back
nursing at milky
boobs her two kids
balanced on the
paradise of her belly.

He telepaths friendly
playful feelings
resonates with bears
who initiate this
infiltrator, white man
of crazy wisdom
becoming bigger
than a whole race.

Here’s the freeranger
in tree-posture
(live footage, high
summer sundown)
paradise for T-man:
two clear months.
‘I tread the great maze
of Ursa Major.’

Now Prince Valiant
adjusts his fringe
androgynous samurai
cast in a sitcom
with ten-foot actors
who dwarf him:
puer aeternis
orphan of Arcturus.

Blood-brother of
the subarctic fox
go well! Walk easily
a moonless night
wise warrior
the new boundaries
between your world
and the beast’s.

Tined food; one-man
tent: no weapon!
That would be
disrespectful to them.
He’s here as nonviolent
video witness
culture-hero of
Vancouver, Toronto.

junky Treadwell
whole again, ex-dipso
crusading champion
of the new
between nature
and the bipedal tyrant.

Offering himself as
ecstatic intermediary
from the street-wars
handsome Timmy
is rock ‘n’ roll naturalist
martial artist
sacrificial patsy
falsetto St Francis.

Here’s Tim as
medicine-man, rainmaker
threatening the old
meteorological pantheons
daring a grey sky
to show compassion!
(Tears of wonder as
demands are met).

Here’s Treadwell as
therapist to brown bears
lecturing, commiserating
romancing even
acting as instructor
to a damaged combatant
alpha-male savaged
in a love-triangle.

See Christ among
the dumb animals
teaching the beasts
It’s Kinski’s second
coming as Timothy
Treadwell resurrected
from the dead.

The deep north makes
Treadwell a man:
Dexter of the cities
another scumbag
hits Alaska and
the superman emerges
selfless, ready to die
for a greater good.

The Great Bear points
to the Pole Star
the center, another
condition of life
the lion and the lamb
in each other’s arms:
wildman kisses beast
full on the lips.

Almost ursanthropy
man into animal
dregs into God:
Timothy reborn as
Lady Nature’s lover
conjuror of the forest
Sacre du Printemps.

He pushes a big friend
away by the snout:
no pussyfooting round
this adversary!
The past is just
a memory of paralysis
a rough bark: ‘Dude.
Get out of my space.’

Here’s Timothy T’s
(twin Tau for crucifixion)
last rant against
the keepers of the earth:
nature-boy turns nasty
unacceptable foaming
of the prophet
in a cold Eden.

He’s here to protect
the Honeysuckers
from the man with
the firepower, gun-mad
sicko fatso
motherfuckers killing
bearcubs just for kicks
in the peninsula.

Only one shortwave
call to back out
but who’ll speak
for them? A carnivore
sleepily inspects the
half-naked interloper.
Will His Majesty behave
like a gentleman?

Big bad grandpa
cast out of the group
arthritic, sick, knee-
deep in the river
missing a rightful
fish in the waterfall
eyes young Timothy
grumpily, greedily:

On the last
day he’ll exit
in front of camera
rolling (audio, no
images, leave
that to imagination
underground Herzog’s
filmic obsequies).

But no telling like
this fantasy-footage:
Enkidu running
with the timber-wolves
fighting Gilgamesh
modern city dweller
whose mind has been
chemically sedated.

Thirteen perfect
summers running
transcendental madman
almost in the arms
of the bears
he worshipped
with cool evangelistic

Now he walks
up the river to Eden
two brown giants
behind, flanking
accompany Timothy
escort him into

Drink, Treadwell
of the wilderness
that old slow sweet
honey of death.
Rest, decapitated
hero, not in vain
your kind, pure fool
comes again.



The Rainman

rm2 aisha graham

The pluvial god
is here now
in a raincoat
he walks the hills
head bent under
low cloud
old man of
sombre washes
a watercolourist
of smudges
painter of running
talking to himself
of weathers
misty outlooks
vague endeavours
all put off to
another time
climate and
the sun’s whim.
This is the rainman
this is him
eyes to the ground

The way things
might have been.

image: Aisha Graham (acrylic on paper)

The Middle-Classes in the Flea-Market


Trawling sad
blocks with ambivalence
of feeling

Searching gutters
for good things
in secret

conveniently shrouded
by rain

You pass down
through picturesque

Knowing you trade
on embarrassment
of others.

Here in a ghetto
you hesitate

Prepared to buy back
what was stolen
last night

Without recognition
or worse still

So it goes in
the land of plenty.

Pay the Devil
then pay the Devil


Service of Tenebrae


And someone said:
Give me twenty-six
lead soldiers:

I will initiate
a military order
of creation.

Brutal separation
of the source and
the expression

Will bring the
word-song to an
untimely end.

Each syllable
will be called up
and conscripted

Will belong to
the territorial forces
of convention.

Each will be
appropriated by a
powerful dialectic

Utterly devoid
of metaphor
the dangerous one

Which leads a man
to live sufficiently

And gentle tongues
which have never
been scratched

Will be extinguished
and unspoken
one by one

And what has not
been written will not
have been said.