After a few days travelling around the South West (is that right?) of the country, I now reside back in London; wearied by my lack of sleep and lack of a few other 'creature' comforts, but otherwise quite full of zest. In the basement of a cocktail bar that felt very much like a boudoir, I had been sipping on absinthe and discussed with my friends how the spot could (and should) have been used as a cool place to exhibit art or jam to jazz and poetry. Finding none of this, I flicked through a pad that I had on hand, and read to myself a little. Here is such an example, which I was reminded of last night, as I sat on a beach and watched the rising of an orange moon:
Daylight breaks
through a docile mist,
the trees keep a vigilant grasp,
keeping ties linked like a 'finger-trap'
between sky
and soft ground; fingers
splayed like roots advancing,
raw, exposed, nerve synapse
then the bright blue
of morning explodes
into being with a
lightly falling spring
rain. To go from the
dark fuzz of an adjoining
night, into the newly
sprung glow of morning
in an instance. I put myself
towards a perpetual death
and am left lucid to see
what others may miss:
the ascent of a god
atop his throne.
No comments:
Post a Comment