by another name, the nameless wood:
a strenuous monotony of being awake
where I could not go on
to the middle of a vision
to walk and go beyond
going to the limit
to hear only the echo of footsteps
in my viewless, steady tread.
i had no more lust for knowledge
even its branches
suspended even from sleep talk
to know more about my sleepwalk –
in this soft earth only secrets.
as i realised the senses between night and morning
into a chasm of names
but at the appointed time saved
to live forever
although all of us alive –
by a signal lit upon the sky:
a great blitz of seats
reserved to hold hands
falling into a minute that seemed like a century
ready to leave
although I would fail to say good-bye
and would be missed and miss-ng
a temporary monument
these temples I wrote of
now silenced as trucks crashed
into our last defence and all the eyes
could not devour in one sitting the sight
of so many;
you can still find me though I am missing
in a chasm of something.
He stands upon the grid,
Like hairy Cupid.
He rules above us as porn king
A model of international stardom.
He is to himself magnificent
As animal thing.
He does much, much
And wears a magic ring.
You said something about a song adventurous
The time I had in my younger self
Both of us in the arms of our mothers
Later as friends
To many in parks or clubs various a nuisance
And after a belly full
Now ﬁnding ourselves cripple
Circling almost squat
The shank of a walk
With old dreams and old talk
Our sight severe and at the slightest touch
Is this a secret war between us
To recall what might have been
And now I face you in the street: my old self
I wish my love was here
As I staggered towards myself
The trash traﬃc of food delivered
My last look one of young girls
An angel watching from the pavement
The car crash that is myself
Still living in these ﬂames the tears of these girls
Recalling a trial of strength between one and myself
My stump like an old sack steady
Is lately silent and empty
Found by a lonely dustcart
Still my remains ‘unmarked’ @ remember:
He was a ﬁery fellow, an eagle
And what might be said of him
In the green black water of this basin
An overﬂowing pit
As they scrape his brains from the traﬃc system
The chorus repeats what might have been
He’s still to agree himself as the 52 bus dims its lights
Turning into Kensal Green
Hey, Amigo. Yes, Gringo.
You and I we travel in tunnels.
They say this stuff makes you invincible.
So both of us in shadow –
the brain controlling sums alien.
These sums measure the smallest tremble.
Amigo, I notice your hand upon something personal.
And after we are done, I forgot to mention
I’ll be waiting
Escobar, Jesus is coming.
So show respect.
Assist me, assist The Magnificent.
I am invincible on ground unlimited.
And I sit in tower with cup between industry and dust
organiser of the money shot.
In each face
where once were words now is humming.
He is? Tell me he is.
He is: “es nuestro amigo”
We told you before, Escobar, Jesus is coming.
Gringo, this wall you said….
Amigo, it’s likely to account for many dead
but who cares / what the heck.
We have this tunnel of ours:
to enter together and lie there flat wanting,
the sweat of coke, the sweat of ambrosia.
It could be quite a party and I shall lack little:
Escobar, I hope you vote for me.
And you one day for me
when America is Mexican.
How very dull to be taken by a troll
At the start of my visit to Oslo.
If you believe in them
it will be easy to understand a key play of Ibsen.
Such as why they poisoned the water
In a letter delivered by the daughter.
Which gets me back
to the Troll and Dr Stockman:
Who are both rather brave and fearsome.