I. Astronomical DawnA truckload of dreams
and they will not come to pa.s.s— blackened sunbeams flicking through
thighs and armpits of the moon— helicrafts of holocaust over murky waters of
soul echo deaths that are mine by the lament of stones.
I hold its waters in my hands,
cracked chinas of abandoned testaments neither here nor there in dreams of fright, of fractured movements in
veins of matter, cla.s.sical theories of me dying with the music
of my dreams.
I hold its waters in my hands, summary of a pa.s.sion that led me into streets at dawn chanting the forbidden word—
a renegade toddler stripped and slammed
on the scout"s slaughter slab.
In one onslaught of solitude through green eyes, options weighed, resignation denied
so propels the surge— the silent treachery of calmness, low ebb is rust
without soft landing
rammed into bricks and thistles of the mesh.
Out of which love beckons me
for I"m loved by one and one alone interloper now before your eyes trapdoor to treasure trove—
to win, you have to be fit and to be fit
you must be ready to win…
II. Nautical Dawn
Traveller, you have not been this way before. Take your gong and pipe,
seven old nuts awoken from earth"s core;
Seven gourdlets of supplies hidden in your pouch as you step out this day…
Life begins at dawn
when the wrong dew sheathes
the green spear by the bank of the stream your head must wrestle with the mists
crop out your hands and squat for a camel"s drink.
The journey will be long and the desert
a rough cross for the rebel where
the fixtures are sky-bound for even the
flattest of all springs has a crocodile in its sands.
Brother, I go
I take up the pillar, the post
the sins, the stardust of my time
the dilapidated sanctuary of thoughts— fresh earth for a new beginning.
I have communed with myselves,
drawn fancy patterns from the eyes of my grave after several dimensions of hermitage,
after several dimensions of savagery, after several dimensions of waiting.
I have seen a candle flame on the navel of my grave;
I have sold my fears I go to the winds
set for new horizons at the call of dawn.
III. Civil Dawn
If it must rain
let those who will not be cowed
come out with me to chase the leather…
The fox dribbled my clan on a muddy field after rain
the result is my aged limp
and this is a loss ensconcing route through the woods of time.
I pipe a wormy tune, having lost Atlantis
and drunk from the Atlantic of three histories.
Picking up the crumbs of life after a shattering blow
pauper in want ignoring crumbs from the tables my soul is fresh from the cleaners
marked at covert angles
by the memory of death that has killed my shame.
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You have stayed too long at this inn, what is this colour your laughter wears?
You murdered three men built poems on their blood; you murdered nine others
embalmed them in your shrine yet no one calls you a murderer
even the blood on your lips is the white of wool.
Your journey begins at dawn
when the wrong dew sheathes the green spear by the throne of your love
your head must wrestle with the wind reclaim your throne or die trying…