it is late

it is late

the moon is shut
you’ve shaved your head
you’ve attained enlightenment

with lilies and wine
the company you meant to keep
is worthy of your mutilation

then the holy moment comes
when you realize
few things are as you thought they were:

she is not
the chief executive cunt
of poetry inc.

he is not
the man she left
blind on the shore of the aegean sea

look at them now
in the haunted light
they are naked

they are lovers
a myriad of pleasures
await their consideration

they need to be in a room somewhere
a perfumed bed next to a window
but still they dwell

hand in hand
hopelessly lost
among the dark tribes of the sun

on orange street
dulled by one another’s wisdom
they bow over their maps of skin

i fear for them on your behalf

these are the hours

these are the hours
of wrongful longing
(i do not know who i am anymore)

nights are bright
with perfume eyes
slick beasts tamed
by flesh and song

days are few
ripening stars
dull birds melt
the cape’s clay tears

dusk brings dreams to claim their home
silent movies
crawl across
my dying mother’s back

eternal instant
strange new world of wealth and pain
rank with lesser angels

unlike you
my only love
who carries me through broken fire
burning silver breath

please take heart
dark daughter of suns
the glorious end
is soon to come

then you’ll be free
of men like me
who’ve never been to war

our sad designs on martyrdom

our sad designs on martyrdom
did not keep us
to ourselves

the lonely path
the honest ways
bled me through your window

you just wept
for the dreamers at work
in the money fields

the ribbons of pain
that light up your body
does not make me kind

we touch one another
in our rooms by the sea
thoughts of beauty blind our eyes

come

come
atone for the mystery
of your life

the line you wrote
on the day of the eclipse
did not please the Lords

here
take your apples and your wine
head now for the cool green hills

of her heart
renounce your name
to the void

go
sleep in vain
forever

you thought this was paradise

you thought this was paradise
but the preachers got here first

you thought your mirrored house would stand
against the rigours of belief

you thought your arms
were light enough
to carry Her across the sea

you wasted away on those silver afternoons
drunk and burning
with nothing to kill

now that you have found me

now that you have found me
lost among the burnt graves of the maqabir
your eyes a pale dress torn from the sky
i need little
from this world

i need little
from this world
this yearning and breathing and fucking and theft
this devouring of blossoms under the trees of the holy
this sharpening of shields to the music of loss

i need little
from this world
no wanton peace with words and scarabs
no ancient secrets drowned asunder
no flags of glory frail as salt
no drunken hearts carved into fire
no fragrant fog for the drums of the dead

i need little
from this world
no monkey’s harp nor angel’s hammer
no prayers in bars for the mayhem lost
no azure highways flanked by apples
no beached wolves once the storm has passed
no guitars strung with a cuckold’s blood

i need little
from this world
no pittance of earth still charred by shadows
no summons to the mystery of mutual ground
no miner’s sleep beyond mute pillows
no whip to be weaved from the trampled veils
no teaching poetry for free
at the halls of Insurrection

i need little
from this world
except to meet you at long last
in the flesh among the burnt graves of the maqabir
and praise the empty snares on your wrists

i heard you this morning

i heard you this morning
you were up at dawn
mending your weapons
to arvo pärt

you rolled a final cigarette
and made for the hills
past the children printed in the fog
to do what i can not

now i follow
from a deeper sleep
bent in the saddle of the storm
that haunts the dreams
of the sycamores

(i too have learnt the ancient ways
in the mystery schools
you burnt down with a kiss)

loose and lean
you journey home
undone by the roving Beast
and you curse from the hunt
the prize you carry:

my wild love
be still
see a tall breeze come
to the mane in your arms

the sun will shift the glistening flanks
to your other shoulder
may angels grow
fair and cruel
from the cup of wings