Dispersion

I can feel the pain begin to be suppressed
Offshoots set off down new tributaries
Which ought to be, as it ought to be
When love was split, and torn, that
The intensity at the core would
In turn undoubtedly diminish
But we know from the planet
That this is not, and never so
With each departing fragment
The sun centre becomes ever more
Ready to burn, ever more molten desire
I didn’t choose to talk of pain, and love together
Yet they are such suitable bedfellows, that I begin to
Spread outwards, follow on, mapping their direction

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The One And The Many

There are many flowers
And only one flower
There are many hands
And only one hand

Between the many
And the only one

There are hands
That hold flowers
There are flowers
That rest in hands

To rest and hold
Onto the only one
And the many, many hands
And flowers

Rest onto only one
Hold onto the many

The only one flower
Rests with you
Loves with you
The many hands
Hold on to you
Loves with you

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Among The Vegetation

Fields of cabbage, fields of sugar-beet
Fields of English potatoes
Fields where frozen minds might meet

Over hedgerows, and horizons the sunrise sweeps
Three miles of motorway distractions
Bring a cold chill to my heartache, also to my feet

Hard frost, low mist, blue sky, strong sun:
The shining morning armour is in truth silver foil
Yesterday’s perfumed garden becomes barren soil

A derelict farmhouse, set off by the single tree
Clouds and castles, in the land of country houses
Follow the wicked weekend, undoing cotton blouses

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Upside

Defeated man
Broken man
Angry man

Man
With coffee in his hands
And cake on the table

Disheartened man
Saddened man
Action man

Man
With pen in hand
About to write the fabula

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Streams and Vapours

There is poison in this life, I myself have written out a few prescriptions; there is also love in this life, and I myself have cashed in a few inclusive inscriptions

And for all that poisonous beauty, of spoilt love, there is ever more of the call of lust for all to fall back upon

I head down into the implicitly pink morning mist of the valley below

There is a warm certainty about letting oneself become lost, in the vagueness of what I take to be the last rites, of loves poisonous raptures

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