THE DEAD?
cast them adrift upon the cold seas
where their sinking will be slow
their degeneration piecemeal
our memories contingent
upon the continents of our imagination
their destinations stranded
upon the islands of our predilections
i sink therefore i was
what a joke
of the sea under a leaden sky
of the impending crash
it would seem to me that
no two waves are ever the same
not one thought flies away but every prayer
is carried as spray upon the heavy sky
turn to me turn to me
can you not see
it’s coming soon
soon
it will speak the truth
the tides go in and out
in
and
out
it all depends on the artist
it’s not funny
it’s funny this taste
this thin flavour of nothing
how can emptying taste of anything at all
even the taste of thinness is surprising
how at life’s end
the memories are infinite
yet minuscule
foresightedness misty
tasteless in the turning over
everything substantial becoming a meringue
where only the frozen bubbles are to taste
funny how it’s not funny to lose one’s taste
when anything at all would be better than nothing
but nothing is the only menu at the last supper
tastelessness in extremis mortis
it’s not at all funny
a frozen memory
i remember a slippery slope
in the freezing year of ‘62
i was taking a photo
for me and you
a frozen stream
i could not stop
with a long scream
and at a gallop
i hit the bottom
and a great big boulder
i know i should have been bolder
easy to say now that i am older
but i still remember
that slippery slope in ‘62
i love the poets she said ~ i said
the poets are a hole in the heart
a side step of the blood of it
a patent ductus
it’s the old old story
not many sign the contract
although many feel the pulse
feel how the words are a bruit
thrill to them
on seeing two sparrows and a grasshopper
to think you have the right only to observe
the right to decide whether to interject or not
that to do so would interfere with nature
is to deny the that you are part of the algorithm
part of the senseless algorithm
the bloody senseless algorithm
can you not sense the senselessness of trying to make sense of it
when it cares not one jot for your defence
there’s a tap on your shoulder
dare you turn around
