Feed Me With Love

The doors of the factory
snap open like a mouth,
chewed up cardboard boxes
crumbling out into a drain,
curling like a soothsayer's guts
into wet brown shapes.
The wind brings down walls
with the crack of a studded belt.
The wrecks have voices
and lift into the looming clouds
as bubbles of brick.

Glass bulbs of streetlights, shaking,
fall like bright cocoons
and let their electric ghosts go
screaming into the afterlight.
Behind black shut eyes,
shapes still march brightly
with a creeping song,
popping in ears,
and spilling on the tongue.
Writing appears in fire at the curb.

Suddenly, WB Yeats appears
in the body of a bird.
The moon prangs at a weathervane
losing height,
spins into a whirlwind of light
and rockets down his throat.
He retches a calendar of signs
which spread like music
across the night.

An angel smokes beneath a fountain,
ears pricking
at artists screaming like candles,
writers gnawing their shins,
rats dancing in piss,
the lawns of countries
blossoming into the ground,
the insane rising up with bile
and burning tongues
to massacre the court.

The corpse of love,
collapsed across a bench
and soaked in beer,
coughs and splutters
and is born again.