Sunday, 24 January 2010

In Crow Robes (Whitechapel)

A Robe to mask death's slow incision.
A Robe to eviscerate Will.
A Robe to upend all decision.
A Robe to make everything still.
In Crow Robes my total is Vision.
In Crow Robes my presence is nil.

The City sifts me like
The finest grain
Through its mortar, its gravel, its rain
And gazeless faces glazed with days
Stare through me.

Sinew -

- these are another matter to me.
The night-paved streets are another anatomy.
My robes are Dusk's marrow
Through water-pipe, wheelbarrow,
Furnace and factory,
Everything, everything, peels back to me.

Thursday, 21 January 2010

Song for Rupert Brooke

Are all my crushes doomed to be
Doomed poets?
At least the dead can not reject affection.
The beauty of the dead is locked in death;
In the pendant of my twilight resurrections.

On the spectre of their legacy my pen rests.
It is the tangled reins of faith that we share.
Behind the eyes' ageless gaze lies assurance
That our minds are licked aflame by the same air.

To share awareness of the subtler passions
Is to crave to pass a hand beyond the frame
From which you stare; to drag you, fresh,
Screaming, from the frozen mausoleum in
Ignition of your now-replenished fairness.

I press the pen against my lips,
As though it were your own.
Were we not a continent of death away
I'd offer up my throne.

Rigid with a dream of your seduction,
Culled from that you casually confessed,
I weave myself into your life's meander,
Divested now of death, my poet rests.

Skewered by a pure erotic fury
Usually reserved for those alive;
Behind death's pane your cool allure
Is fixed securely,
And I bereft, the widow of all wives,

If I should cry, think only wistfully,
Undressed of death's duress,
Of foreign fields in graveless company,
Into this cleavered calf's caress,
Corseted by time's embarrassed flesh,
A history harvested is
Pressed in tenderness' delirious sweat,
And as a Hyacinth my thirst is yet un-met.