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This is a spell to call you
across the woodlands, out of the crowd.
I write into this noise
with only half my mind.
The other part is arguing or silent
trying to pull me back
out of the woods.
I want to hear with the trees and the pulse
not looking forwards, not looking back
but angling in to find
an inner forest of tree and shadow
that feels like light –
a dark that is mine and marked
with the pawprints of the dog in the mud
I’ve drawn from the woodland.
I try not to see too far ahead
but reach after an unlearning,
an unravelling that pitches me forwards
into a beat, a pulse that pulls
streaks of light between the branches like a ribbon
folding amongst their moss-covered reaching
as I reach with them,
pushing into the sun spattered leaves
pushing into the shifting shadows
wrapped up in the space between branches
kept and held in the trees
without judgement, questioning or accusation
in the earth’s basin under a silk spun sky.
The planet’s crust is cracked right through
beneath our feet
we the meanwhile talking
politics or pickled herrings,
Edward Hopper, adverbs of degree,
Boots scuff the scarp.
Quakes happen here.
The crack goes on for half the Earth
and chops the sea floor
like a log. It shifts a bit – some islands
tip up down the line.
a thing like this can ground
a person’s fix on solar scale
and telescopic time:
a person’s pinprick mind
half gets Andromeda
roads and rooms
but half exist / no blue
Bloated Father Things
We watch our fathers
asleep in chairs,
heads lolling, slumped down
great guts, bellies, stomachs.
These bloated things.
Look at them old red-faced bastards
with grey hair!
Look at them sloshed gits,
who forgot paradise!
heavy in armchairs
with old drunks’ snoring shadows
in TV’s midnight glare.
What wasters! They
could’ve been anyone
they pissed it all away
all up the wall.
Now just look at them!
Fathers in drunken armchairs.
They drink their demons.
Do they dream their angels?
But they are the templates,
they are ugly paternal shapes,
things we hate, things
we must not become.
We must not turn into them.
We must shoot at stars
We must be something,
Pungent pigs’ piss. For Christmas. The subtlety will always be
questionable at best: sex and loneliness, the apostasy inherent
in this gesture, that hardening, this implosion without end. Moths
batter the window pane as she hunts
blackheads on my back; later, in vain, one tries to abolish itself
against the bare bulb, making a noise that contains
Z and K. Moths, pobrecitos, lost souls, all they want
is to fly home to the moon.
In all the photographs he bore a panicked air.
John Z. Komurki:
bodhypnotised by rituals
you long to escape this
cluttered room with its
loud walls and moving furniture
do not deny it;
i have seen you
sometimes when you think i am not looking
you will shoot a furtive glance
out of the window at the serenity of the
flowers i have planted, at the soil i have dug
at the soothing emptiness outside
your eyes turn, downcast, back to
the dank room, so pale
in comparison and yet so stifling
automatically, without thought, your hands
work their mindless preaching
it has become second nature
to know but not to understand
to do but not to think
one day, i know you hope, you
and i will watch flowers bloom
together. and we shall not look through
the tinted trappings of glass
it will be free and lovely
and you will dance on the wind.