Earthed

The former astronaut centres himself
in the airforce base bar on the outskirts
of the Mojave desert. He needs to

surround himself with chrome and glass objets
and has a penchant for new office blocks.
There are silver flecks in his irises

and no matter how much he looks away,
his drink stays upside down in its tall glass;
he drinks to conquer gravity, regrets

the genocide of the Venusian race
who helped him find his ship when he was lost.
He’ll never tell a soul – they’d think him mad,

but he holds silver women every night
in his arms as he dreams fitfully, pulled
from his light sleep by bleeping satellites.

The Amber Veil

What does the amber veil obscure today?
It covers you and takes you to a place
where you have found extremes of new passion.
Far greater are the spaces in between
the membranes of inherent awareness.
The sleep of being is your mode of flight;
from it you know your inner warmth will spread
to an acceptance of your state of grace,
that hovers for a moment as it waits
for the mantle to lift. You softly trace
invisible paths leading to your life,
through secret circles, reaching for the core
of iridescence, incandescence, more.

The Lead Husky

One is held by the discipline of it -
and the ties, and yet one has to be far
more agile, ferocious, mercenary
and be fitter, stronger and have more nous
than all of the others put together.
At the same time one has to be able
to translate all of the given signals
into immediate beneficial
results, whilst simultaneously steering
and pulling with ease the heaviness of
all that is back there behind where one goes.
One needs to be independent and stay
so; to simply be one of the team is
to have one's real identity erased.

Honey Buzzard

When I fly I am nailed to a grey sky –
a beige ghost haunting every cowering thing
and there are those who think I’m from abroad.

I sit sentrying a seasoned fence post,
my talons splintering the ageing wood,
or zoom in so low, quartering a field,

the black cross of my shadow all I show
as a brief warning – then I drop from high
and land and break the back of some fat vole

or other creature. I tear off its head
and dip my hook into its hot innards,
stretching rubbery strands of intestine,

like a tyrant gripping a poor country
between the scythes of my beak and my claws,
my life so good I live by my own laws.

Lazarus

Yesterday they say I was dead;
that I was brought to life again
by one who claims I live by god –
all I want is to feel no pain.

I don’t remember being dead;
I’d know if I had died, I’m sure,
yet those around me say I’m back
from the far side of death’s dark door.

My doctor says I live and breathe
and will do so for years to come.
The elders want me dead again,
to kill the miracle to come.

I’m told I was pulled from my grave
into the light of firm belief,
to live as living proof of love.
I call my ‘saviour’ a thief.

A Little Death in Venice

A little death in Venice always means
an age of strangeness, angularity –
cafes, bell towers, hotel foyers, streets

and bridges. A spindly tree is a ghost
whose twig fingers haunt my bedroom window.
Visconte’s Venice narrows like most minds:

A naked blind girl predicts a future;
Another father subjugates a boy
who’s far too sensitive for his own good;

A group of children dance in turquoise waves
as warm rain rains down upon golden skin;
A man wanders through narrow streets and lanes;

A tangible decadence permeates
the heavy air, the stillness of the now;
A naked couple make love in the sun.