dylan thomas’s funeral at laugharne
you see this black and white film
over a silent time since then
when i was but four they laid him
to rest?
no more the timbre of his brogue
voicing the innards of those times
when enrapture was a slowness and
vastness the immediacy of our times
long he has laid since then but here
and there he goes again and again
lain not to rest
but to sing out of his chains
in me
through the door to another land
is another door to another land
it follows
that what follows might be on its second lap
how many revolving doors before the end
ends is up where we started from
74
today
making faces at myself
in the mirror
a child looks back
in disbelief
which is in itself
but a reflection
of age
no answer
alive to death
frightens me to death
better to not have lived?
‘lived’ only lives in the living
from here to the outer limits
of time and the universe
so many ways to die
and there or some we do not know about
but death is just the same
or is it?
answer ~ dead silence
ours
my words
are not your words
but they can be
your words
are not my words
but they could be
ours
in a word
amusing
i don’t write poetry
my mind does
i just write them down
the world (and you on Twitter) supply an endless stream of ideas
i wait impatiently for the next grain
for the next pearl to form around
you need an egoless vacuum mind
for the virtual particles to form
it is such fun
reign
and if you wait long enough
the rain gets to places
that the sun never warms
and yet
those places warm the rain
togetherness
rain at the muster of two hearts
stopped just there to resynchronise
to decision the other path
they turn
