Hereafter

There will be

sunsets at all hours

and dawns on command

the heady scent of moonflowers

There will be songsanddancesandlaughter and

but dreamlessness

There will be

clouds to tread on

and rainbowcoloured sands

the moon to rest your feet on

There will be beautyandwisdomandpeace and

but dreamlessness

There will be

the milky way for a bed

and constellations for nightstands

aurora borealis but a pillow for your head

There will be sunshineandrosesandgoodwine and

but dreamlessness

There will be

leftovers for the dog

and sighs of satisfaction

blankets of autumn fog

There will be picnicsanddaysatthebeachandwalksintheforest and

but dreamlessness

If I do get a place in Heaven

I ask but to be given

the gentle cloak of night

for needles shards of starlight

and enough thread to weave a dream

The Slow Waves

O let me sleep
Let my mind wade in the shallows of the dreamtide
Let it utter wonders before me
Give me a lion to tame and a unicorn to ride
And a number of skies no matter how stormy
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep

Let me bridge the chasm of night
With bright-eyed wonder
Let me pull down the veil of sight
That I may tear it asunder
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep
Let me lie in the shade of the colourful trees
Let me listen to their whispered songs
Show me the things the blind man sees
Teach me the mute's secret tongue
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep

Let me shake the boughs of chance
Let me reap the stories that drop

Let me dance a tender dance
With a raindrop

That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep
Let me use a poppy's petal as a sail
That I might glide upon the still oceans
of heaven Let me walk the unclear trail

Let me drink the troubled potion
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep

Let the curtain of my eyelids
Fall before the stage of the world
That I may see the sylphids
That I may touch their moonlit curls
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep
Let my breath sing of glorious three-faced ghosts
In the loneliness of my bed

Let me walk the muddied coast
Of the sea inside my head
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep

Let me catch a glimpse of Jovedimarmoreon
Through a static haze
One-eyed-three-legged-woman-headed saurian
That exists only on Thursdays
That I may go where there be dragons

Let me sleep
Let Morpheus most merciful take me in his arms
He the butterfly-winged drunken magician
Let him tell me of spells and curses and charms
Let him grant me hallucination
That I may go where there be dragons

Hardcore

Black Mariah Number One
Blotting out the burnt-out sun
Cackling Fakir on the roof
Spikes and swords and tiger's tooth
Fits of laughter in the middle of the street
Raw gums and bleeding feet
Shoot the bombs before they hit the ground
Get your stray bullets at the lost and found

Flaming hair in the Summer Twilight
Fresh air orgasm at the End of the Night
Break the heart before it beats again
Drown the pieces in acid rain

Imaginary Parts of 'Z' / The Bellyscratch Whores

It’s so silent in the deserts of the mind
It’s so bloody cold out here.
The bleak white sun wounds the air
And bleeds rather than shines.

He’s so tired he can feel himself think;
And he’s been sitting here since God-knows-when,
It may have been a year, it may have been ten;
His hair is turning white; your eyes are turning pink
Unless I’m seeing things:
It’s easy to hallucinate
When all you have left are your eyes and your fate,
And one of them burns, and the other one stings.

Gathered here we are all bereaved
And cynical about it – some of the time.
We are starved for Literature and thirsty for Rhyme
But all we ever do about it is feel grieved
Or listen to midnight sighs, or both, or neither.
Thirsty as we are at the bottom of the well,
Vulnerable as we are beneath our shells,
Cold as we are at the bottom of the seether –
It’s all in our hearts, it’s all in our heads:
The world is full of love when the world is full of fear.
There are those who’ve never laughed and those who never shed a tear,
But they’re all the same to us, we’ve torn our brains to shreds.

We seek solace in the forgiveness of Time,
And therefore repeat, neverending, into its silken ear –
It’s so bloody cold out here,
It’s so silent in the deserts of the mind.

I find this a bit rambling and confused, but it is a worthy introduction to the Juvenilia, both in that sense, and in that it centers on some very common themes for me at the time. These themes were: blank page syndrome, and a generally bad opinion of so-called "literary" people. I never got round to choosing the most appropriate title, as each refers to a different theme in the poem. So I just left both.

Tourism Board Blues

Tumbleweed!

Where there is no right side to the tracks

Where brides wear rags and beggars wear white

And they're all made up like clowns

It's a fucking freakshow, this town.

The streets here bleed

A steady flow of lowlives and sadsacks

And never a day goes by without a halfhearted fight

Or murder theft rape arson

And zho's going to stop them?

The judges are all drunk

And the sheriff's asleep, dreaming of a haven

Where there are no laws to break or uphold.

The ghosts of dead soldiers haunt the saloon

Drinking the milk of the moon.

There's a preacher-punk

Stands on a soapbox, says we'll all go to Heaven

Because there is a Heaven - at least that's what we're told -

"Where the angels leave tracks in the clouds and smoke:

Cigarettes don't kill you up there, folks!".

And the streets speak.

Word on the street is, there is a war on

That's being fought with harps and firehoses.

Word on the street is, they've got us by the balls

And they won't let go till the fat lady falls.

There's a circus freak

(Most people think he's a bit of a moron)

Who lives off nothing but sunshine and roses

In the evil dusk he dances and sings

Like a loose plastic bag or a mad English King.

Welcome O stranger to Tumbleweed!

Where dreamers come to die and the dead come to feed...

I wrote a first version of this poem over a year ago. THen a second, then a third. It has been a sonnet, a blank-verse freeform, a prose poem and a dramatic monologue. I think this is the final version.

The Reeling Wheeling Constellation

(for the dead)

It is nigh the broken-glass dawn

With its charade of dew and birds

Already its cool wet tongue

Licks my toes like a dog's

I arise from a bed of mud

Drunk still and floating

Several inches above the ground

And I hit my head on the sky

I have dreamt this place, I think

With its watercolour trees

That stretch their limbs across the world

Like drunk wallpaper

or dead dancers

There is sky falling through the branches

In a raid of silent divebombers

And the heady scented poppies

Are the ever-loving bombs

I have tried to hit the ground running

Sunk as I was and legless

I have felt twinges of yearning

Between the sweet blows of the sunshine

They condemn me these rays of gold

That tear at the fluff of the clouds

And etch their anger at the back of my eyes

To bliss atrocious

or razorblade tenderness

I have felt the love of the murdered for the blade.

Summer 2004 - woke up in the forest, hungover for the first time in my life.

Południowy krzyż

They have walked many a lonely mile
to reach the edge of the forest
They have crossed frozen oceans and danced
in plains of swaying gold

They walked in a single file
without stopping once to rest
They swaggered and they strutted and they pranced
and watched the skt above unfold

They have penetrated the still shadows
stretched across the trees
They have broken the fragile threads of light
that hang through the branches from the sky

They entered amidst the timid throes
Of the things that live beneath the canopies
They trod the carpet of black and white
and they lay on the ground and sighed:

"THIS IS THE END OF THE ROAD"




The title is in Polish, but I might have got the declination wrong. It is the name of an oak in Białowieża forest shaped like a 120 ft high cross, that used to be a place of pilgrimage. I'm not entirely sure yet about this poem - you be the judges.

Hills like Veils

I tried to write a poem

about the city of Rome

and all I could come up with was this:

City of flickering lights

And old stones

Millions have tried to write

About Rome

City of romantic love

And museums

A million poets have dreamed of

A million poems

Why will you not yield

To the rage

Of the pen upon the field

Of the page?

Are you too grand, too old

Or too mighty?

Do you not like to be told

Of your own beauty?

You have baffled me

I admit

As you have before me

Much sharper wits.

Poem written in Rome, on February the 27th.
You may have noticed from the previous poe and this one that I am opening up to new influences, less solemn and less passionate. Don't get used to it.

Broken Things

We have journeyed many years
Swum through laughter and through tears
It has taken many an ended row
To be where we are now.

Even now that we've come to this place
The light of love still graces your face
In the wrinkled shadows your eyes
still shine a bit -
Your left eye laughs and your right eye cries.

Something dripping catches my ear
It may be the tap and it ay be a tear
hitting the carpet.
But we're a happy couple with a house, a dog, a Rover
so I keep reading
the fucking newspaper
Warm and safe in the comfort of the sofa.

We have come a long way together
and it's not enough
I think, as we sit opposite each other
and chew.
We have seen long sumer days
or at least
between rainstorms
Through the quiet English haze
we have glimpsed them.

We have come to that point, we say
with affection
Where we can sit together all day
in silence
but not boredom
Because we know each other so well
and feel
so comfortable
That there is no such thing as a dry spell
in th lush garden
of our love.

I sit and sip and feel the caffeine
after dinner
As you clear and wash up and tidy and clean
gracefully
like it's no chore.
There's a smell from the kitchen of something sad
so I light a fag
and inhale
And think of all the good times we have had.
I chuckle
as I look from the television
to the garden
complete with shed and lawnmower.


...and I hear something drip again.




Du nouveau en Anglais et bientot du nouveau en Francais!
(j'entends deja les hourras...)
Je sais, vous n'osiez plus l'esperer...

The Decline and Fall of the Fiery City

The sky was blue as plastic, and the sun beat down razorblades
On the heads of the beasts who prowled the street in summer clothes.
Like holy incense, there rose from the melting streets a haze
That curled and wrapped itself around public benches and princes’ thrones
And that drowned out the light like water. Back then, in those dog days
There was a girl amidst the sweating monsters whose toes
Never touched the ground long enough to be burned.


She dripped holy water rather than sweat, and her shadow
Was diaphanous against the ground. Her eyes were like the ocean,
Deep and restless and brilliant, and her hair was white as snow.
Amidst the static air she was forever animated, always in motion.
While the beasts breathed heavily and their movements were slow
While their overlarge noses burned in the sun and they stood to attention
(Before nobody in particular), she spun and undulated like a dancer.


Her dance defied the sun, shamed the all-consuming light
That stood like blinding walls along the hazy molten streets.
She sang songs of the shadows and told stories of the night
(These were unheard of in the burning city of the beasts).
Her skin was soft to the touch and cool and white
She spoke a language in which there was no word for heat
(For she was a stranger from across the frozen seas).


The girl was courted by a lord of the desert but rejected him
She was wooed by a lizard-king and still she refused
She had suitors who breathed fire and mastered the hottest of winds
They tried to take her by force they tried to take her by ruse
They told her it was true love, she treated them all as whims
They tried to take her by surprise but she would not be seduced
So they put their heads together and plotted the fall of the nymph.


It was midday when they sought to carry out their infamy
Twelve of them tracked her down and attempted to subdue her
Yet she teased them as she danced. “You’ll have to kill me!”
And little did she know that was what they were plotting to do.
It wasn’t an evil act, it was a whim of men used to tyranny
They weren’t really evil men, but they were, it’s true,
A bunch of spoilt aristocrats maddened by lust and sunstroke.
So as twelve diverted her attention, another twelve lay in wait
In the shadow of the sun. As she came close they leapt
All aflame with lust, in the heat of passion insatiate
And as at last they held her in their grasp she quietly wept
While they fought about which one would seal her fate.
And high up in the sky where the moon was kept
There was a movement like a prison being opened.

The moon had heard the girl crying, the night had felt her tears
And they’d broken the spell of the city to come to her aid.
While the girl was hemmed in with sharp knives and leers
And her would-be suitors all had their daggers raised
All of a sudden came down the sum of all their fears
And night fell at last upon the heat and the haze
Of the burning city of nightmarish beasts.

Eh oui, toujours de l'Anglois. La langue francoise ne m'inspire que peu ces jours-ci. Cela dit, attendez-vous a bientot retrouver ici des bouts de mon projet en cours, l'Ethylicon. Oui, ca parle d'alcool. Ca vous etonne hein?

Brides of the Sea

Nothing’s so sad as the back of the ship
When seen from the shore
Nothing’s so lonely as the feeling you get
When you can’t see it anymore
And you know the man you love is on it
Nothing’s more silent than the heaving roar
Of the waves around the pier when you’re standing at the tip.

O my bonnie went over the ocean
My bonnie sailed away
Spirits of the sea, I’d give anything
For you to bring my bonnie back this way
My eyes sting and burn and my ears ring
With wind and tears and spray
And it makes me dizzy the way the waves surround me with motion

There are a few of us feeling the same:
Cold and lost and alone
The beach is dotted with wives
There are a few that are turning to stone
Most of us look more dead than alive
Some will die there listening to the wind moan
And waiting. Then the survivors will leave, heads bowed in sorrow and shame.

More English! Encore de l'anglais! Rejoice! Z'aviez qu'a ecouter en cours d'anglais!

The Jingle-Jangle Jungle

The Jingle-Jangle Jungle lies across the Sing-Song Sands:
There be dragons, and chimaera, and terrors beyond the the grasp of man.
It is thick with mist and dew and the music of many beasts;
It is heady with the fumes of many an exotic feast:
Oh the Jingle-Jangle Jungle is a wonderful land!

Deep in the heart of the forest are the ruins of a palace,
All of a flurry with a thousand kingly ghosts that search for solace,
All of a scurry with a thousand twisted minds that hope for peace,
It is a haven for magick, where the miracles never cease:
Oh the Jingle-Jangle Jungle is a wonderful place!

Between the ageless trees prowls the fearsome Gallibundry,
Who nibbles and chews and gobbles all and sundry;
No-one has ever escaped everyone knows it’s there –
Legend has it there are marvelous treasures piled in its lair:
Oh the Jingle-Jangle Jungle is a wonderful country!

Right-slap-bang in the middle there’s a huge old elm,
That looms above the canopy like a ship’s captain at its helm.
Some say it’s made of flesh and bone, others say it’s made of stories,
They say it sheds light, they say it radiates glory:
Oh the Jingle-Jangle Jungle is a wonderful realm!


Encore un peu d'Anglais pour faire patienter les masses pendant que je bosse sur autre chose, qui sera bientot devoile.

The Shallows Full of Splendor

Oceans – huge and fearsome and rustling with ghosts and monsters and… things;
Heaving with the breath of the abyss
Alive with flurrying colourful fish
Crashing against levees and invading soft golden beaches
Tainting with mud and silver the distant Oriental reaches
Riddled with foam from a dozen different alkali and bleaches:
The sea is a story of chemical bliss.The dream-coloured sky mirrors the waters and mist
Its depth is infinite and cloudy;
............................................. …it cries loneliness and it rumbles and it sighs and it sings.


Oceans like marred expanses of volatile rock, turmoil deserts of surrogate glass;
Oceans like so many gallons of pigswill –
Nothing is more silent and still.
There are waves that echo with the cries of dead seagulls
And the lashing of the wind is nowhere so dull
As it is beneath the sea, where its song is lush and full
And monotonous.
............................. …Luminous and rippling with krill,
Obscured by the looming shapes that fill
The ocean, there is something of a moon that stretches out to sea like silver grass.


Oceans that carry, oceans that drown, oceans that freeze and oceans that rise
And oceans that languorously murmur
Of the distant shores that await the dreamer:
They exist only through those visions that rise with the steam.
The riches they hold are the stuff of the wildest of dreams,
The dead and treasures and shipwrecks and myths to redeem
That sometimes stir in the current’s calm tremor.
Those are the oceans that shine in the summer,
Those are the ones that glow softly,
.............................................. …those that take on the colour of legendary fires.



Petit poeme en anglais pour le moutondepanurge qui est le seul lecteur qui a vote donc tant pis pour le reste vous n'aviez qu'a me donner votre avis.
Ca parle d'oceans, ou cas ou vous n'auriez pas devine.

EDIT Je ne sais pas pourquoi mais Blogger ne respecte pas ma mise en page, ce qui veut dire que la ou il y a plein de points il devrait y avoir un blanc et des points de suspension. C'est moyen mais c'est tout ce que j'ai trouve.
Si vous n'etes pas contents vous pouvez faire un proces a Blogger (quoique je doute que ca en vaille la peine).

Come Around Now W.B.

Standing (at the counter) acting like a POET
Inhaling freetrade glucose and serpentine dreams
I was IN CHARACTER, I did not want to blow it...
But then my mind left my skull and burst through the beams
Looking for The Ultimate Comfort, a Great Flood
Of Faith, or salvation, or just plain sunshine
Every single drop of my caffeinated blood
Yearned for something higher, would that it was mine.

It was with the eyes of the POET that I gazed
At the rape of the world, quiet and unfazed
I thought I was strong, I thought I stood tall
It was with irony and insult that I glared
At the somber morons with whom I shared
The most POETic idiocy of them all.

("I thought I was a poet, I had so much to say..." - Low)

Short and sweet, one of my nonsonnets (poetic form that enables the author to pretend that e knows about poetic codes without actually having to bother to respect the specifics of the sonnet)

Epitaph For William Butler Yeats

Youth is in the land of poets!
The liquid mirror that he dreamed of
Is polished ruby as the sun sets
And peace comes dropping slow from dawn’s veils above.

The swans still bask in Coole Park
And under bare Bulben’s head
His passionate youth has made its mark
As have the legends it has bred

***

Your grave is just as you wanted it
No fancy stone, no cliché phrase:
Just your words by the sun are lit.
What better way to sing your praise?

No saga no legend no myth
Has ever cast such a cold eye
On life, on death
William Butler Yeats, it is with a bow that we pass by.

A bow and a raised glass to one of my favourite poets. A poem written two years ago in Ireland, one of the rare surviving pieces of that period.

Last Stop Said The Angel

They say there is a town, just a few miles East of here
Where they eat their own babies
The chemist sells bottled crocodile tears,
Flasks of powdered toad, essence of rabies.
Between Nothing Park and Nowhere Gardens
There’s a shrink that nobody’s crazy enough to consult
Whose office is full of awaiting burdens
And who’s founded his own (suspicious) cult.

There’s a tavern where the punters are shiny green lizards
With a taste for strange places, tame catatonia and folklore
The barman’s a narcoleptic wizard
And together they drink and fuck and drink some more;
Catastrophic amounts of tea, whiskers and pain
Sift through the atmosphere’s alcohol.
It’s a beautiful picture of ugliness and rain
When they drink from their gallon-tanks of petrol.

Oh wonder of wonders, the sky is black even at night
Oh marvel and idiocy, they’ll curse it sometimes,
The pale toads of day. They may be a sight
To soothe sore eyes, but their blood is as sulfurous and heady as Time,
Though it may be human? But who gives half a shit
It’s all only a question of Death,
And Money; they bleed money - they can afford it,
They can allow the coins to drip from their breath.

In English this time, a little absurdity made in China.
J'ecris principalement en Anglais, et ce depuis plus longtemps que je n'ecris en Francais, donc va falloir vous y habituer, il y aura ici un melange.