Striations

 

Striations

 

Baleful watchers from crimson skies

at distance, possess Jupiter’s red eye,

speak nothings of us in slingshot ire;

and stay their thunderbolts and fire.

 

They say: let all your four winds blow,

crack your cheeks, you hurricanoes,

where hot lava cools into striations

and your fighters take up their stations.

 

Slipshod, in fight-night boxing rings,

with corrugated ropes of cosmic string,

more just than corners in blue or red,

paint here two more colours instead.

 

Enflamed striations from our minds

impress themselves upon the blind,

invisible and unseen, in black flashes

shot skywards into night’s lashes

 

in raptures, perhaps we stuck it on you,

the tossing ship, the hapless crew,

by slinging striations of sticky silk

from wrists, in twists of cobweb built.

 

There’s guilt. But no room to breathe,

when striations from we other three

overlap you in dreary cuttlefish conflicts,

all squitting ink and lack-boned squid.

 

And all our striations are interlocked

in daggered drawn gunpowder plots.

and minute shocks against each other,

while all the time we smile like lovers,

 

No cartographer exists that can chart

some Sargasso Sea, or place apart

where seaweeds stop and still the boat,

for seasick swimmers to stay afloat.

 

Malignant watchers in crimson skies

are showing little or no surprise,

but move nought to scissor our striations,

just rubbing brows in contemplation.