Smile at me again

and you'll get one
right in the eye

said the horse
to the horsefly

Black

Ho um
black as blackness
midnight shadow
windowless room
locked safe full
of coal of coal
what a sweet
darkness open up
at night it goes
invisibly into them
your bulbs until death
puts on two coins
the world's red eyes
sink black inside
blinking volcanos
leave this poem behind
it is too black
even for you, friend,
glowing lights dance
before your eyes
you feel cheated
by this dark
and you write letters
to me or to
no-one at all
they pile in the dark
so black it hurts
so black Norwegians
get terrified and light
candles in church
and tell ghost stories
in Norwegian, I
well never be scared of
—I don't understand—
the language is simply
dark to me,
dark as the bottom
of a tin bucket
when water pours in
and that I call
ladies and gentlemen
the eye of the sea
looking from its bottom
through a fathom lense
into a vacuum
into a galaxy,

What a sweet dark
it is, ho um, what
a world of chalk

Sweet of

Oh kitten me—
world
you have far too
long
sung out your
heart,
hung out to
dry
laughing at your
fate
with a ripe
bellow
like a ghost of
fruit
oh take me,
pip
on your tongue
that
I may blossom in your
gut
and escape it with
wit
I am a fatted
calf
a maybe man, a
one

The Black Saint and the Sinner Lady

The back of the world is broken
Saint Charles has spoken—
out of a Panic cloud
the hordes of Hades crowd,
tyrannosauric martyrs, blood rain,
incubi, necrophages, fauns,
the four horsemen—a world of pain
elaborated into many forms,
and at their head the queen
a skeleton of evil wires, contorting
sickeningly, surveys the scene
and blights the land with fires.
The gods surround the planet
to watch its catastophic ellipse.
"The hordes of Hades have my bet,"
the black saint said, "That's what
I call a goddamn apocalypse!"

Through A Glass, Darkly

In the space beyond the window
worlds commune
hinged on a pane of glass.
The fading blue
of dusk, the dull moonlight,
the grass—thoughts
a nearer scene assumes—
then, double glazed,
a pair of halogen lit rooms
living through
the unconsciousness of light,
libraries
hung out out in the night.
The glass
invites its dual selves
to burst
like branches from the shelves;
a fire escape
climbs from a haloed head,
pages falling
heap about the eaves, the dead
wake inside their books,
the streetlamps softly calling
their stories into flame.
The unnamed sky is full of light,
full of the windowframe.

You stare through the glass,
through your ghostlike image,
as if looking for something lost,
until the windows of a building
beyond the trees, long dark,
illuminate.

That Shadow, Sister

That shadow,
sister,
takes the sun in hand
green as the flame
veils the heaven skirt
fire as black
led down from the sky
dreams that unlearnt
haberdashery and music
slowly whiten
that coral sky
for embroidered fires
the magician's sleeve
out burst a rose
swelling waves
of owl-lit clouds
crowded into oblivion
as animals beyond
the hedgerows recite
their lines the scene
opens in darkness in-
between the blood
cooked out of sin light
and the moon collapsed
under a nightlight
finding its effigy
a pale leaf horse
vein to solid vein
a god of mulch
these words incantate
—daybled darkbreak
abracadabra light—
horsewords
from a mouth of teeth.

Vv

You have forgotten
the skeleton of a fox
in the skeleton of a hole
the spine giving its telegraph
to the unlistening earth
the architecture of it
honeyed with maggots
the pupa of the hole
hatched into the soil
the earth an exoskeleton
honeyed with magma
rock as hot as guts
yawning catastrophically
coreward
from which the spine erupts
with a rabid screech
as the mantle folds
as the lightbulb stuns
the skull with revelations
from the electron gospels
reanimating the fox
which now wears the mantle
as it traipses through the stars
leaving pawprints of lava
among the milky archipelagoes
all of which you
starry-eyed
forget

Our Two Years

Standing with you before Kirchner's street walker
glowing with acid green and flashing orange,
our colours, dressed in light together, across
an unknown German evening in the past,
I turned to watch you looking at it
and that was a painting all in itself.
We stood so long time almost lost us,
stayed in that moment together as the
acres of the painting stretched away.
It could have been months, years.
Your face was lit up like a flower
open in the evening, you seemed so happy,
like you were about to start laughing,
and I thought about looking, how we were both
looking at each other, and that through the image
we saw a shared love in the other.
The beauty couldn't stay in the painting,
it came out to us, because we saw and knew it.
And I have been watching your flower open two years.

Karamazov

Smerdyakov threw himself
down the cellar staircase
into a rare darkness,
with some deathwise angel
escaping as white saliva
from his convulsing face.
His was not an embrace
of the bloodied earth,
no hieromonkish love.
There was a mutant bloom
of thought enrooted there
behind his crawling eyes,
something black and silent
beyond the abattoir gates.
In that dark seraphic fall
the blood flower grew.
A nothing was in nothing.
Spittle like ectoplasm flew.
He gave an otherworldly cry
like a night hawk's boom,
the world shivered under it
as at a feathered spirit
passing over in the rain.
Fyodor Pavlovich was woken.
He would not sleep again.

Dylan is Fed to the Dogs

Down the street the dogs are barking
And the day is getting dark

The day is getting the dog down
And the dark street is barking

The dog is barking down the dark
The day dogs the bark down the street

The stark day greets the dark
The band stay down the street

Dark is down the day is dark
The dark is regretting the day

The street is a dark bog
The stray dogs are betting

Dark stray dogs gown the dork
The gay bard downs the grog

The dogs down the bar bark
The dork and the bard are kings

Down streets the dogs a barking band
Down the bar the kings a-downing grog

And the dark Gods drown
A thousand miles behind