She hoods her nose with her index finger
And fixes her eyes on the draughts board
She thinks hard and in her heart the tomboy tries
To win every game against the naughty boys
She moves about the board trying different form
The muscles in her fingers are flexed like boxer’s brawn
Her mischievous blue eyes sparkle with serious intent
To beat the foe before her she fights without relent
Then after winning several games of draughts in a row
She calls the winner a looser and the loser a hero
I touch the pen of the moon in a solar eclipse. This light will change as love glows through the telescope of a zebras third eye. My heart beats in the mouth of a hippopotamus; outside a merry-go-round is smashed to pieces by a bold one-penny stamp in a frogman’s suit. My jaw aches and I feel the crumbling earth beneath my feet. If I sit down in the chair I may well see the universe revolve around the light bulb. Like a message in a bottle, and who made the bottle, I float across the chlorine clouds in the first radio broadcast from the moon; it hides in the boot of a beetle that hurtles through a mountain at high speed. Is my memory really a memory or is it a green colossus who strikes the bell tower at midnight and pees in the market place where the homeless are assembled. There is a countdown in my mind that scares me because of all the fears of an eclipse turning red in a green sky. I am overweight like a goldfish bowl that has policemen swimming inside it. I dry off the dead cat and laugh a little at the public garden that has rubies hanging from its trees. I dole out my grief to the midges that enjoy the sexual activity that accompanies the tattoo parlours miracle-making. It’s the end of a second and I trip and fall into a crater where I meet Mr Eternity riding the first alluring model from a Parisian catwalk. I walk around with a whole railway sticking out of my belly. The empty coaches are blue inside and midgets play squash with the light bulbs. A telephone was ringing as miles away above the clouds a man in a gorilla suit put the phone down. The postman pulls away my lips from around his letters and thoughtlessly throws them on the ground. The girl from the newspaper shop has lost a lot of blood and her shadow wanders through my apartment without a face, I cannot touch her because of the waterfall dripping down the walls. A rumour was started by an astrologer about how life will change after the millennium; he walks on a red carpet of blood and embers as the night smoothly rolls a rose between its fangs and jumps out of the window. Across the daylight, the little children are coming out to play followed by the noisy sound of a farting elephant from the betting shop that has so many bunches of flowers stacked high inside that no one can get inside.
On the day of the eclipse, I will sit inside the café on a hill in Greenwich Park and as darkness covers the earth, I will watch as darkness covers the land I will watch as the armies of heaven march by.
In the days leading up to the eclipse, there was hatred in people’s eyes. People have no time for each other. This morning another argument between neighbours broke out. True love doesn’t escape either. The summer heat causes friction between couples. I’ve seen this on the streets as well. Now it’s raining. All I’ve thought about this week has been death and rejection. I have been in tears more than once. I have felt troubled by the attitudes of the people around me. It’s pointless to try to explain it, but never the less people are seemingly lacking in simple affection.
Above an empty glass a mirage of dark rippling waters, thoughts about the future become falling rafters. A tidal wave of depression becomes a standing rock beside me, so old it seems a valuable possession; it’s no substitute for the evening light dragging its silken night-gown over my head. A couple perched in high chairs in a tree are examining their feelings in the small round hanging mirrors. Three restless teenage girls are fuming in a dark struggle of giggling argument. What shall I do? My friends have not come. I try to pick up my rock of depression and go but I cannot. I sit like a living film that can see itself in a gloomy cinema. I can vaguely make out the cliffs and overhangs of my face surrounding my eyes, I tap my hand to deafening pop music.
August evening, the night before the eclipse.
The power of the heavens will be physically displayed.
Darkness falling during the day.
A work of precision engineering with great power
A work of precise alignment
Engineered with the immense power of the solar system.
Yet another of the amazing experiences of living on our earth.
Where the elements are so well balanced and so well co-ordinated
Yet so well taken for granted as a result of the theory of evolution.
The darkness seems cold and has a weird edge to it.
Or I have a strange feeling, buoyant yet nervous.
That small distant moon will block out the sunlight.
A great stretch of the earth will be in darkness
Demonstrating how vast and powerful the planets are
Yet we experience them only occasionally in our lifetimes
And assume that life carries on as always.
The earth is my music
And your tune
Listen to the air outside
Or as it whistles in the room
Or roars across the land
With titanic force
Or fills the lungs of songbirds
Or plays the water course
The earth is my music
And my lament
While some do cry the newborn song
Some go down a vent
I love the sound of earth
Its silence in the night
Its waking sighs of morning
Its symphony of light
A death like ours
Like crumbling towers
That nature un-tunes us
To let death wound us
The only time we crack
Is when we dress in black
Time stands still then turns to stone
We each must mourn alone
A death like ours
Upon the wooden stake
There are no lies about it
Death is not a fake
Jesus died just like us
To do what’s right and just for us
The glue that holds together
Out heart, our soul, our mind
Why does it lose adhesion?
Why does it fade unkind?
No, it is not the spirit
It’s what it cannot find
The interface of body
God’s Love complete to bind
For when we die, we cry
Why are we forsaken?
Cry first and then write
I cannot think, my chest is tight
Love is crippled by the past
Like a sparrow in a trap
The air is thin, the lungs are dead
The blood swells inside my head
Love is terrified by crones
Witches spells and vulture bones
Into the cave, death leads the way
Night laughs at weeping day
Love stands before the cave-in
Like the ghost of a screaming raven
The train is riding down the river
The suspension bridge is black and withered
The sky is filled by angels fighting
And from their mouths fall drips of lightning
The captured prey
In the hated bird’s nest
Will be hit by a stone
Will get beat by a cane
By his friends, his family and the rest
To be rid of the crone
To be rid of the bane
The orphaned child
Taken by the witch
Lies crippled in the nest
Lies crippled in its plate
The villagers believe
He was killed by the bitch
Are now full of hate
Are out of their heads
The hated bird flies
Away from the scene
As the nest breaks away
As the nest falls apart
As it falls to the ground
And is taken by the stream
With the innocent prey
With the crushed heart
The villagers grieve
The villagers cry
They killed birds prey
And let the bird fly