intelligentplayground

Winged Thoughts in the Age of Air

Month: July, 2014

Sleeps

sl2


Memories of
my tramps
through the earth

Sleeps of
the marginal
traveller

In cold
wastegrounds and
factory-yards

Whipped by
disorientating
thoughts

Cross-questioned by
arc-lamps in
car-parks

Laying newspaper
on damp
tarmacs

Waking to
post-office vans
and trains

Urban
analogues of
chanticleer

Sad victim of
disgruntled
bivouacs

Still mechanically
keening for
freedom

Prepared for
anything
to stay connected

To something other
than prevailing
numbness

Creeping into
backseat
midnight-beds

Curled like a foetus
in the womb of
God’s will

Sucking a sweet in
an abandoned
engine-cab

Going somewhere
unspecified in
the night.




image: Banksy






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Apple

app2

i

The great cast
of Eris then
lowered the red
walls of Troy

The diseased
apple rolling
from her hand
grey-green.

The city, with
her towers like
gigantic ninepins
unsteady

Stood straight
in the oncoming
path of discord
divided.

And down came
the fast-spinning
grey-green
rottenness

Smashing its
rotundity of sour
flesh into
the metropolis

Puncturing the
north walls as if
they were a masonry
of cobwebs.

ii

Out from
the apple came
snake-like intestines
of two armies

The hot brain-
pulp and bruised
rotten shreds of
Patroclus

The strychnine
core of an
everlasting rage
in Achilles

Helen on
the battlements
posturing like a
pretty harlot

All spewing
out, hideous
inundation of
bitterness

Burying the red
city under a
black sea of
corruptedness

Existent long
ago in the
beginning as a
true golden sphere

Standing on
Olympian white
tables in the
company of gods.






Supremacist

sp2

When a
busy pigeon
tramples
a sparrow
among other
sparrows
shuddering
in dust-baths

Does she
smile inwardly
though her
rigid mouth
cannot move
sideways
does she
smile to
herself?






Rite of Passage

rit1

I walk on
brass which
shivers and vibrates

Metallic pavement
of golden
tremblings.

Inside a vast
green lantern
of wood

A sun is
blazing, cosmic
lighthouse.

Properly
speaking I am
intoxicated

Having consumed
too much
darkness.

With sound
exploding all
around me

Roar from
the wings of a
white vimana

My footsteps
detonate a
golden noise.

The walkways
thunder, delicate
music.






Sleeper

hobo3


Sleeper
in the churchyard
sun and rain

While blue and
grey patchwork
the sky

Tilted in one
stiff plane
you slumber

Making an angle
to graveyard
lawns

With a grim
cadaverous
rising

Old
raincoat for a
winding-sheet.

Almost
resurrected, only
half-asleep

Your hangdog
neck, so horribly
skewed

Forward at
the neckbone
seems to say

You are not
proud of your
condition

Seems to act
where a collar
stands away

From contact
with discoloured
flesh

The part of a
sluice which
carries the rain

Washing down
the back of what
you’ve been.






image: Jan Zepelin





Merlin (From the Tower of Glass) II

mer4


Here at her
pleasure in
detention

For whom I built
the watercity
I wait:

Sheer-stopped
I am in
glittering walls

Casting only
endless shadows
of need.

Tonight she will
come to suck
at my arteries

When an iron sun
has made
me talk.

Secrets of
the materia
prima

Prophecies
of the Pancross
of Britain.

Codes of
the atom
not for children

Hierarchies
of metals:
bitter knowledge.

Shall I replicate
the fevered language
of the ants

Their businesslike
monosyllables
work-songs

While her red nails
are drumming
with excitement?

Or shall I be
the hammer-bird’s
great spike

Furiously drilling
through glass
walls, driving

O, plunging
skyward out of
the canal-face?

I have lost
inner height.
Idiot chatter

Scratch and squeak
of mundane tongues
have worn me out

Rains tunnelling grey
films downward
drown me

In melancholy
retrospect, round
walls smothering:

I have
no word
to speak.

Only I swear
by the fiery
poles of the sun

The glorious obstacle
of willpower shall
not stop me.

I will be born
to the Waterbearer
one day.






Merlin (From the Tower of Glass) I

mer3

 

Window, yes
but no door
outward.

I am another
who sees
too clearly

To act
in any sense or
small degree.

Green extremities
tap on thick
glass walls

Urgent random
drumming from
somewhere outside:

Ah, the perpetual
orchestration
of platitudes.

No shade later
I am sure
of this:

I live inside
an evil
solarium

All can study
my indolence
if they desire.

I am like the poor
whose condition
is wide open

Transparent
as it were:
they cannot escape

Although the most
casual gaze can
find a way in.

A pile of
mouldering feathers
sun-white

Bleeding
ammonia at noon
reminds me

Of yesterday’s
flight in green
Chantry Woods.

Pilgrim on
the wind I
battered then

Some kind of
destination from
night-to-night

Aloft with the
singing race
of fliers

Travelling fools
God’s birds
of passage

Insane maybe
but very much
at large

Free from sorrowful
pressures of
both sides.

Slow Worm

(c) Graham Hall

This long
elastic man
stretches himself
through green
undergrass in
two directions.

Not giving
away destinations
sub-serpent
he elongates
northwards
elongates south.

Burning a candle
at both ends
he seems
easily the most
flexible fool
in paradise.

Sinuosity
his religion
miniature
penis perhaps
he is bishop of
subterranean joy.

He does
forgive.
Some cut
him down
to size: the
steel women
farmer’s wives.

But still he
dispenses oxygen
from inner space;
mysterious naked
tunnels travelling
laterally.

Are his riches
this black gold
through which
he slides with glee
in danger of
exhaustion?

O no! We
are talking
professional
down here:
landslides and
property-crashes
are his meat.

His the acceptable
semi-human
face of decay
this apologist
for non-domestic
entropic chaos.

Versatility is his
middle-name
undermining
humility his
special technique
of entrance.

Segmentation
is his way of
being everywhere:
catch him on
a good day and
think of Francis.

Though he’s reduced
to burrowing
in subculture he
may yet be buried
with a twenty-one
gun salute.






New Age

na1


Then say
good-bye
to the great tree
which bore you
float away
slowly out of
its shadow
beyond the circle
of which you
have never seen.

These are
the new days
of passage and
you are bound
to cross the water
far out of
reckoning
there to become
what you have
always been.






Fairground (A Study of the World as Amusement Park)

ff1


With footwork of
the god Pan
slack jaws of
village-idiots
demons ride
the spinning cars
tread lightly where
angels vanish.

Screams fine-tune
to exploding lights
a ballet of lunatics
is kicking-in;
the floor is a
serpent of rebellion:
red dance of
revolving victims.

They slap the
little fiery cradles:
‘Turn on your spits
stupid babies
burn in your own
hysteria, children:
disorientation
your dubious
medicine.’