Thursday, February 21, 2013

Intermezzo





The voice of objective reason.

Normal as Job’s glided asylum

With sanity observing the clouds

And condensing the contradictions

Of her, fragile disembodied truth

That is forecast to rain, black tears

From your grey desiccated mouth


The lustrous river deity has entered

Its ultimate stage, broadening along

The bitten serpent, shaped as Cancer

With a body, not of its own, washing out

The contours, of your age, of your time

On the loosening tides of natural definitions

Where the mind’s pulse distorts, each breath

Swimming to catch up with the next breath

Dead weights hang like charm and tough luck,

When the gravity of such things, eventually settles-

Like condensed droplets irradiating the sky

In symbols only the stray gulls can interpret


In abeyance, living becomes microscopic-

A careless purple spot, the rotten thumb-track,

The overripe, obese, tanned, decaying grapes


Absurdly, suggestive of a Claesz painting

In the overheated wards of ones imagination

We can, but wonder at what currents leads us

To those obscured walls, with fading graffiti

Stating the plain, indisputable fact “I was here”


Yet, tonight, they will arrive, as on every night

Dislocated fragments, stacked up, on newspapers

Fingered and stained with Royal weddings

And that blazing star who didn’t quite make it

A suicide, A homicide, no matter, it seems

It’s just a corpse, in the dreams of yesterday

It’s just another day their dreams were made of-

It’s just another night where their dreams ended-

When Nurses robed like fables came and went,

Patrolling their estranged souls like oversized orderlies

Unlocking every doorway under the high sky-lights-

Of a surgeon’s knife, mending the flesh wounds

That cannot be fixed, for they cannot be determined-

Like yourself and that malignant serpent, inseparable,

Entities you believed, your good God had created.


In your awakening dreams of this sprawling city

A thought, becomes ever-green, from street-to-street

You dream of her grotesque inhabitants being cured

Of that collective detritus of your newborn condition

Of acrid pavements perfuming where patients lie

Of road-sweepers disguised as waxed sentinels

Coming with buckets, ice-picks, and rubber gloves

Talons for blazing hands, detergents on the nostrils

Festooned with the flashing beacons of their trade

Before the reddening of day-light, you dream

We shall be asked, like homeless vagrants, to move on.


Still they are here, inert visitors, love long gone

Within their wilting daffodils and clinging hands

De-flowering their memories in the colour of sulphur

The Sun is consumed through them, an artificial light

Ignites the dark empty hours with her lonely satellites,

Remote, as distant, as impenetrable, as the heavens

And like, you here, now, a dying star, somewhere

This second, they tell me, is shedding its final radiance.



JH 21/02/13