A HOLY VISION

Looking back in
silence,
the polite
soul of

our age could see
the smoke stacks,
competing
with the

digital screens,
skittering
an engine
chuffing away

towards the Golden
Arches, a little
penal and
gaunt-like

not pure and
not true, the Coke
cans now pulled
out of the
refrigerator

their echo,
a muffled ringing
from the sealed tomb.

mmm

A holy vision
( second draft )

On looking back, the
soul of the age saw,
smoke screens and
digital stacks, with
the skittering stern
bells, that chuffed
the blatant bugles,
by the golden arches

blowing out this hump
and buzzing of Coke
cans and sauce-pans,
now pulling up from
the freezer's echo, its
gold filled mufflings,
now shrieking, from
the sealed tomb,

like those tears, on
this slow afternoon,
so let us now drink,
with lips listening ,
to the wounds,
looking this way,
with slender winds
tangled, dead in the
drink,

now white-washed
in this stillness, the
trees, sad in these
wounds, now in this
age of smoke screens,
and digital stacks....
blurring, let us now
sleep.

What Can It Be

What can a gleam be
in the breeze,
this evening, what
could this be,
galactic, these rings
were, dissolving
the ages with
eyes, these
caulderons
which swallowed
snow,
so cold this star
that clung in
winds
where wicked dins,
bit off
flames,

I think tonight, I
will dream about
these candles,
a hemmorage, whose
blood was bright,
ungathered,
can
you see the
drinking, done by
these wasted priests,
their
worlds,

are soon dingey
fires,
the grease pyres, that
burned sandalwood,
on marked hitched
floors, strewn with
hulks of
animals, the
soaked leaves
that choked
death away
what can
this haunted shaking
be, its curious
rhapsody, just
restless papers,
tempests, where
mistrust,
gazed and stirred,

was this a sperm, that
could not circulate,
I blow
and see it , as I rise
to meet it.