Thursday, 22 August 2019

The Search


The Search



She once constant kissed
him by moon cooled pond
under crisp willows blessed;
four heady words were wished,
decanting his sunrise blood red.
Tassellated bulrushed fingers swept
felt his tracks and wept.
Those self-same tears
have long fallen now
brought forth back-paths
where leaves black fertilised
lay lines like drills, past planted,
fast irrigated ditched streams.
Counter stitching strong currents,
his headstrong swimming
against futured morning mists.
Ghosting, she fades in, rolls
seed heads of bittercress,
cleavers him to her tight,
cowslips his slipping grasp,
binds with white weeds
those insecure wracked wrists,
horizontal holds and tracking
under unfixed sextant star
above, twists his tissues,
tortures nothing as such.
He feels it, fevered shrieks
of burns, boils, I’ll not returns,
weak, those dribbled imperatives
never thinks he’ll come again.
But her fast forward or backtrack
mirrored by the stretching rack
yokes them by reflected lake.
Enthralled both corporeal shake
loose, glide atop Lillith’s lilies,
still fast bound for foothills,
slow thawed both beneath
sun’s pondered backscatterings
gathers to him vestal moon
with light cobwebs pale.
Now their sky streaks hail
down teal windowed glass,
voyaging forward rainbow cast
borne on sycamore seeded sails
in murmured flight, ascending,
travelling past outlying interiors
perhaps in hope, perhaps in fear:
some who search for lost ones dear,
some who should not venture here,
some who should fear to trample
on the corpses of the living
and the almost dead. But she smiles.
Takes him for old time’s sake.
Buries his head to milky breast
sighs sure, for certain it will be
over soon enough where there’s rest
for those wicked enough to see
through doors. Shocked, 
now looming large before him, 
shooken free of his guide
he withdraws and wipes, in fury
fast judders, unscabbards his sword,
you bring us back to this, this, this:
where once we constant kissed,
named us unspeakable, kissed,
cleaved with machete, still kissed
endless yet kissed us both to hell.
This past foresight lies not in your gift,
it is where my fantasies will exist
for fools being fooled
must their dreams be ripped
by murky raiding magpies stripped
who look in looking, look back
strong in motive, strong in crime,
weak in vision, weak in rhyme,
blunt in imagining; they lack
what it takes to ever learn,
sledgehammer pounding 
my mind's anvil,
batter until I crash and burn:
More clearly does he see wrong's right, 
wrenched free his hand in slapped spite,
before he might attain full flight
over moon cooled pond, 
seeks release.
Fall fast full fall and surely peace.







No comments:

Post a comment