And life is itchy;
skin cold. Little ball of light too far now
to split the current rubbing at
a Freudian puzzle criss-crossing
in the melanoma of night.
I go in blues.
In greens. In spores
light as breath, atoms
I have not been a God
in my impiety, nor a King
pure in my filth. I have been cobwebs,
fleshy and pale,
singing chestpiece a doodlebug
o’er tightly coiled fields of rosy cheeks and
I will not find myself here.
De-boned and perfect -
a fish scooped hollow, just
blooming in the milky white bowls I licked clean,
of the final choking quietus.
If I am to be found,
it’ll be deep.
in the tall marble hills of eloping sunsets;
Where the colours sit heavy on Babylonian pylons
and the pig-headed people folk
smear marmalade on their fingers
to catch fireflies at dusk.
It’ll be high
in the tooth-shaped clouds;
Where dragonflies are mere graffiti stains
aerosoled on wind
and the white noise perma-coats the icy ghosts
I spilt my mind for.
If I am to be found, it’ll be in snow,
in rain juiced from morn
on lips parted like bread,
tongue drawn in wait for the final
almighty Right -
that weighty promise and
indignant birth chime that
will be famous in mud.
Somewhat overdue annual poem (2 and half years so... oops)