Its dash against dry stone
a special brand of hideousness.

Naked madness,
the jangle of the noise
torn from the throat of night,
tucked between the rage of sightless villagers;
their torn members
toys of plastic
wedged obscene within the dash of withered bells.
16
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THE WORLD OF DYING LOVE

The long finger of blackness is holding its head for us.
Dingy bue is its shade,
comatose in movement, hazarding a slow swiftness,
it inches toward us.

Relief comes fitfully.
The dragon alone, an upstart
crowned with drunken spending,
has horse colours as ribbons with his eyes.
It cradles a breast of trembling bone.

Misercorde, Misercorde.
I dreamt I saw skeletal slackness
dangling;
the poverty of touch is a casket
with love in rumbling sockets.
Craziness is the passion of the engulfed,
dribbling pleasantly.

Presentations extended beyond and into themselves.
Slackness schemes with invalid awareness
in a brothel of hope.
17
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Part II
WHISPERS

DARKENING GREEN

My mind, rarely with me alone,
parts with energy,
the floor boards scuffed
and landing beams just
roosts big enough for pigeons
on leave from fields
darker for their grain.
19
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WHISPERS

Suppose and this is just supposing,
though it is a supposition of the highest order,
I were to die tomorrow

A roar denoting silence?
At work, if tradition is the dictate,
something eulogistic would find itself being said.

I am more calm.
I perceive their layers more shrilly.
Past the lipservice
and shocked surprise,
whispers, rumours and
the grapevine would bruit
around a different legacy.

And the open bier?
An embrassassment.
What more could be left unsaid?
20
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TRESPASS

I would imagine
the eyelids fail,
fall closed, shut,
as icicles sit
on porch doors
where old nails rust.
21
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FOREST SPITTLE

The preciseness of that little moment,
bowler eyes in hot, top rays
effervescent through
spongy forest gloom,
the wet of the happy
unreconciled with the dry outside.
22
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SEAGULLS
I see many thoughts from a window.
Seagulls in the fashion of summer
and leaves as they qu