VI

I had seen sad fires flickering

under an afternoon moon

upon the plains

(whilst copper wires thrashed to the horizon

and lifted green plumes

of air

into the blue, blue wind)

the Goddess spoke to me curtly

to say

mankind had cloaked

despair with rubber

and removed the electricity from its hair

and that savage dullness

was the gospel of its day, and

cantatas did not remain.

So would we, kindly, turn this round –

go bare with ecstasy

and really SING

of Wonder

in our ways

even UNDER BROKEN WINGS___________

And you give the meadow

one all-out hit

and not

petty everyday tyranny

and it grows

wild, weird, unbelievable

and repays infinite danger

with infinite vitality

and not with cruel conformity,

that unkindest revenge of all –

obedience to a fall from

She was amazing

that young planet, a skin

so thin

dazzling a trillion schemes

even on a Sunday

transforming endlessly

reaching

after stars,

sending

the darkness off

reeling

over voids –

a wave’s ecstasy’s

fabulous foaming

crashes in the stirrups

of a slipped-up shore

O I believe a great fluency the sort that

moves mists and miasmas into the print

of a dawn amid willows

wherein

a trillion turns of leaf and

juice and light

weave

into winged things,

and swimming things

and fur and flight

and webs and fibres and

rhythm and blues

on the boughs of cadences which

we excitedly term right

for there’s no strangeness even in every

new created transformation of our tribe

except under-appreciation

which borders on the level of

the blind

- that we can’t see

the endless whirligig ecstatic charge of

newborness magically appearing

between amid among and in and on every

shivering leaf of our tree of life!

Go on,

a dance in your eternity

for a shy boy

o great lover

suitored by all,

and so many with so much

more

chutzpah,

great suitors, and tough negotiators

and rough fuckers

all

the shy boy

hails you! goddess spirit

of the glowing world

grant some magical

reward for this great crush he’s

borne all this while

give the kid a kiss

and put your best foot

on the floor

he’ll not disgrace

your angel wingèd

soul.

You see,

Dreams are a living soul, -

Not a one-time payment of invested hope, ridiculously rewarded thru’ the gifts of others,

- they are a living raft working a care-driven passage upon such a different ocean that they can never end except in success; in the domain

of UNKNOWN

we who have these splashing waves

of gifts to give

are we

guilty, maybe

in our hearts

do we seek to harm these joys

making our gifts

subservient

toys for masters

who can claim

that here

was

no miracle

at all

of simple spirit

but

craven,

mastered,

directed art

prised from unformed

half-belongers

who did not have…

and is that guilt not our own

weapon of high deceit

that leverage

on the rock-slide

of the ash-root

and the palm?

that which dances only

in the current time

that’ll leave no trace,

save only a little reflection,

which will plant no footprint, make

neither fossil nor archive

that which is to all intents only

its sum

in the sun

that which lives once for one…

this we cherish

in the magic of personality

and keep from art

and science alike

for here is that which must never

go ordered,

the living air of life

Nor will we let you pass

with your plough

through the beautiful

bodies of our dead,

slicing the arching thigh

or glistening prick

with your arrogant tongue

Wait with me

and shout out their

orgasms, hit hedgerow and bridleway

with flowers of zest

and they’ll hit back

flourishing a meadow’s cheeky blush

and ash buds to whip the gale.

I ’ll not stand in praise of

the tyrannies

of artistic forms

O but I do bless

the love that rages

in the soul

of those

that must sing,

the crystals

forming

willy-nilly in those

who must create

the SONG:

We all fly with that

angel-like charm,

but I w ill not brook the

harm you do

praising the

doctrines of

style

She knew that who taught

me, and saved me

awhile

thanks, Nell

That which is flat is a fear

of love

for no light can

go around it.

and no arm!

For to step up into a realm

is an act of faith,

the hope

that reaches beyond faltering

self, to await

a messenger

of heaven.

Flat is that language of precision,

interlocking perfect fitting

pieces of pre-determination

spreading blackly, without dimension,

into arrogance, the insistence that is

so insecure it bolts down doubt, covering

the floor with rivets of cruelty.

The sadness is that the journey

has been so devoid of community, where are we all for each other?

But rather than pool our insecurities,

-the one common bond, -

we have inverted

only to admit

a common goal

of success

in all that is the

triumph of the individual.

And thus we laud the

destruction of love

failing the collected

heart

for the collective race,

tearing ourselves altogether

apart.

In a certain time,

which is the time of tears

be they joy

or fears and sadness yoked

within a heart of richest emotion,

we hear a voice

which distils

like the clear but darkened water

in the well’s

strange corridor

- between sun and stars

Speaking to us, saying:

stay lightly here

that the breezes may

touch your tears

and wrap a leather thong around your neck

and tighten to nature

all that belongs to apathy or fear

so that

the fire may burst from your heart

and all that is imprisoned there.

<...>