My dreams are your dreams’ pets.
LOVE has gone off to fetch what you wanted
whether you’re tired or not, even if you’re asleep LOVE will wake you up snarling and
start bitching at you about why you’re spending your time on youtube looking at
baby manatees sneezing and dogs talking in Canadian voices
[which they’re starting on in universities now
which is a good reason for getting OUT while there’s still time]
LOVE has, like I said, got other plans that have to do with being angry and spitting blood and missing people you barely know and countries you’ve never been to under high plains or deep polar stars.
and like I said, fetching you what you said you wanted like a Halloween chemist with a fridge full of needles and fever creeping round the foundations and a wipe-that-smile-off-your-face smirk
pain, nausea, a six-month headache not touched by aromatherapy and iron bars between you and the night that don’t even dissolve with wine
like they used to, to go back and befriend that girl you missed without knowing, before LOVE came looking for you and smashed up the house you were born in
its been twenty-eight years since you had nothing to spend your birthday crying about and now when your mother comes to visit you’re not sure who bakes for whom
or should or whether you get to glory in creation if you don’t glory in yourself
but because you have LOVE you are still angry which is the greatest glowing technicolour gift of the ineffable all
it’s keeping you off the drugs, cycling without stabilisers, with your feet in the air as you piss yourself down hills
and giving you a silver tongue at the great spelling bee
and making you so hungry you’ll steal to eat.
so you’re not reading enough books anymore
you’re not reading any
you’re burning them nightly when the shivering starts
you’re slamming out chords on a borrowed piano and laughing in the open in cafes alone where children watch you singing like a gospel space-angel
because you are determined not to edit anything, even the real moments starting now
thank fuck for you huh
b/cause my other humour is childish
and unkissing exposes it
and someone might have a kick at it
that’s why i’m always listing what i have
and have not got
where my teeth should be, just slots
no licking licks, but listing.
gets harder to fill and harder, by falling,
the chasm of island stars
whether in bar by brawling, bribery
or by sitting in quietly.
by reading spiritly
and growing cabbagy
writing not one singable song
that was not also wrong.
then this is harder than it looks
nowhere else at all you imagine
ever had forests/mountains/tao
no one had a singing voice
they could put out of a window
in californian like a canary
that would carry anything.
b/c no one ever washed their dishes and sang
stop believing in the power of Fairy Liquid
camping in the weather still makes me feel alive
In the stories, anything endless is doomed.
i have never been this far before.
although i have ever wondered
of our ancestry
of our horizon where the clouds lay sleeping dogs
being of our forty generations and what came after
and the three men from the east who came after
the star were imaginary fathers,
and the three devils with worn shoes, they tramped after
and the three moons over the pines were my mothers
they left eggs and needles
all over the beaches,
under my fathers’ fragile moustaches!
i do not know what it looked like
when everything trumped itself
all the cockles warmed
a blood kindle cook-up with all their relations
in a big cookpot
when the vine in autumn with the
kissed with wet lips
or how the apples fell
but i went down to the water and i washed my face
among the clusters of crop
…start counting now
and do not stop until either you die
or something is forgiven
the long lines go further forever to the granaries at the end of the world.
i called out the fish and they came with their arms full of soft white glass
they were not hungry
if there is no need
there is no stumblinglight
and this world isn’t mine after all
but what it is comes to you slowly in shambles
and only when you’re ready.
now the horses are in the hills
the bees are ripe every one
you, drawn by the moon on a flickering wing
of my hair each strand where
even in winter
and still in time with each other.
sure as a drum skin
flatten, grasses, see the sun’s
horizontal eye closing.
come to the edge of the water, Pharoah
for the voices of the crickets are under your skin,
the brown rocks the dry remains
of your generations, their golden blood
is the mouth of the mud that snaps at your ankles.
come to the edge with
a thousand lost empires in your ruby teeth, Pharaoh,
and gnash until your mouth bleeds.
the exodus goes on without you,
whether or not you can bring yourself to say it.
You Ruin of the Orchestras, blot out
the desert’s whispers under Your Thunderous Sunset!
and on the looms of trumpets
gather the tatters of Israel into a cloth
flung open on a thigh.
open the gates
let slip secrets.
(like how to love without envy,
how to walk without legs, righteously,
how to rejoice in the promise of apples
how to follow maps inside your heart
how to have trust and not be broken)