the disgust

 the disgust

that they discus the details

for the exchange of bodies

the remains of what remains

of a done deal undoing

disgusting

slag

 slag

write me a poem

from a slag pile tip

with high stones and keystones

that could let it all rip

for they weighed them in batches

as they dug out the tips 

lorry-fulls and word-fulls

like clinker cankered and sulphurous lips

not from the treasure

that flowed under the slags

but the spat out blackness

like hot treacle drags

that tiered the words 

by size in their seams

by blackness by shine

by clinks and by screams

as they sundered the grime

they give remembrance of us

as we were then at that time

long ago indeed that was us

running an afternoon’s sunning

slow turning weariness

down roads way back home

achievements mountainous

clatter them to the top of the moon

or to the bottom of canyons

dug by the cranes and the lorries 

those foundlings anew 

it’s all gone now of course of course 

it’s all in the underworld

of post-moderns anew

that are built on the slag

of times that we knew

just that one tear it took 

me back to the sun

running the gauntlet of us

one more time come on mun

or be gone

go home 

come back 

or be gone 

for the keystone is dislodged

the slag’s black blood is a flow 

that forever has congealed

in a memory of lads that we know 

were themselves the keystones of self

although they themselves never knew

the everlasting elegies must end

 the everlasting elegies must end

beware the feast of words

for it is eating you 

beware the hunger for words

that promise a feast

for it is eating you

your elegy for the sparrows

under the table’s crumbs

you cannot chirrup it all away

your seat at the feast 

was it not bequeathed to you

do not look that death’s horse in the mouth

today simply is

yours

the masque

 the masque

under the poet’s mask

there is another mask

it has always been 

a masqued dance

words dancing with words

each carrying its own secret

hidden even from itself

they dance the candlelight hours

daylight masked

night’s eyes masked

clawing at the reader’s mask

the catastrophe of love

poesy is

poesy is

the menstrual flow

before the reception of an embryo thought

ere the conception of a concept

will grow emotion into a fine

fineness

and so on it goes

all through the years

love’s world takes words

ne’er to asunder a heart

but to break each mould

for old time’s sake

to kiss each fine fineness

and to garner what aught 

let nato take its course

 let nato take its course 

in an english 

country 

            garden

i’ll tell you now

of a plan that i’ve seen

that a drone as got its 

name on

so 

how many worries 

do you think there are

in an english 

country 

             garden

no emigrants from the grave

 no emigrants from the grave 

hothouse earth

we all beg asylum

migrants from the mad house

where’s refuge for us now

for if you take my place

and i take yours 

our viewpoints are indifferent

in the retinal fire

seared blind

we fight with our white sticks

falling off the road to ruin

the king of the castle

rules over rubble

fight and flight

our ire’s fire has scorched us

the last boat’s pyre 

has fired us up

no fool like a cold fool

the ashes of iniquity are dearth 

and it has cost us the earth

no emigrants from the grave

not one fist will throw down

the final ceremonial soil

the grave of fulfilment 

remains unfilled

where is your god now