Zmiana sposobu prezentacji
Can I see you now?
Can I?
Here, now, and then not.
A flicked switch that brought the moon
under the eaves.
But where did you go
when the spring flipped the cam
and cut off the flow?
Farads fall from a burning wire
and I am drawn to you.
I bump my muzzle on the glass
with a plink-plink.
Just a silhouette, you are,
bleeding into the tungsten hum.
I am blinded to the future –
a tented charlatan
with an imprint of a coin upon my palm.
Can I see you now?
Can I see?
(...)
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We are all waiting for it:
our swoon of moon in June.
We take our ticket and join the queue;
shuffling, expectant, envious
of those who depart
clutching their proffered gifts:
A gaudy bauble; glittered, brittle,
hollow as a promise.
A granite obelisk; unyielding, eternal -
an everlasting certitude.
A first edition –pages crackling
with crisp innocence.
A duck down pillow; for nestled slumber,
not threshing in the throes.
A greasy Buddha, glistening
with divine, tantric potency.
A red roman candle - a whizzed, fizzed
scintillant snort of pepper.
A broken clock; no tick nor tock
nor hand nor face nor chime.
Time slips by unnoticed,
(...)
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I had a dream, a simple dream,
‘bout little leaf floating down a stream.
She wound her way past flower and tree
unashamed of her anonymity.
But the big boulders
that blocked her merry path
did mock her mediocrity,
and laugh.
The little leaf could not be riled
and, as she danced and swirled o’er the water
she smiled.
For, with the new day,
they’d still be there
but she’d be far away.
Where do we go, when the night is done?
When the leaving lights are on
and new flesh inspected?
A baffled pallor the neon corrected;
our mucky urges distilled
to melted ice and flat ginger,
collected and scrubbed, no time to linger -
the cattle drive begins anew!
A rub of rib beneath the chiffon
or downy brush the greeting drew.
You thought her eyes were yours,
her soft ears gilded plenty
and cheaply bought and nibbled gently –
but no, not so; on this night
(a night that’s nearly done)
the rub was thumbed
and flicked by a Danish nose
and all of your enchanted prose
did not a folio fill, with the stage so full
and the audience too indisposed
to make the players earn their sacks of wool.
What a poor playhouse for a scrivener.
(...)
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The queen is dead, they said;
the hive discordant,
fractured into counterpoint -
rumours like oil slicks
of mordant moles
among the loyal drones.
Beneath a veil assassins snuck,
crept in cells and stole her breath;
nectar laced with nightshade traces
from foul blooms
that smirched the humming glade.
Crystalline the hexed halls,
pollen dusted attic floors,
petals strewn among the eaves,
sweet comb broke below the firs;
frost pales the gabled faces -
sugar smeared to hide the traces
of soft shells scattered in lattice.
Soldier ghosts
in nameless trenches;
workers’ hollow wordless howls
curl like softwood scented shavings
(...)
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Meekly, then, she reaches the edge,
denim rolled in perfect folds
of symmetry;
her long limbs
have the pallor of teacups.
She tests with a toe,
then laughs along
as we register her surprise
that the polar melt
has bitten her well-tended feet.
As she flees the foaming sea,
the saturated sand
borrows her impression,
and then, with reluctance,
commits her memory
to the air.
I see the sea the sea is me and up above the sea the sky -
the sky is I -
and in between the line unseen.
The sailor’s stitch, the traveller’s twitch,
the fisher’s dish,
the broken hearted gazer’s melancholy wish.
We three: the me the sea the I the sky;
the endless brine,
the high azure, the green allure,
the maw and caw of teals and terns.
The line discerns
no others but the brothers in our holy trinity.
I dive. I die.
A tattered trine.
Just me, the sea; no sky. No I.
A tightened twine,
a hook, a fly.
A gift divine - I bite the lie.
A pull. A cry.
A stranded break; the sea forsakes
(...)
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Well met on the slipway, negotiating the rain:
two sodden paths
that led to brief infusion.
A leant in kiss before the plunge,
smooth stone peered down upon the humid dance.
He got bored and swam to shore;
she watched him disappear behind the reeds.
He left behind a tamanu;
it floated over the meridian, found a virgin beach.
Green shoots searched for probability.
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Sapling now, she survives; arching up with impatience.
Boughs bent to futurity,
no doe return or quiet muse
that plops in puddles of solitude - the whimsy of oaks and limes.
He creaks in the cold and gazes from afar.
A curl of leaf
or slope of bole
reminds him of himself, but no more than that.
They are both shadows in the forest -
too late now to whisper on the breeze.
All that is left is driftwood, perched on the bank,
beside the lapping lake.
