Song-less Poverty – Itinerant Mercy

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Songless Poverty - Itinerant Mercy





Silent music from the hidden swamp

Unlike the meaninglessness of empty signs and broken totems, these haunted seconds inflame the soul’s bright ferocity to feel and ignite new wonder. The muddy steps, where the faultless day gave birth to song-less wonder, are worn and rounded by a million revelations of false travellers and itinerant slaves.

Devastation, that grey and grinding wheel, is spilled as wine in every room. These talismans of waiting, long and thin, the kissing-breath explained with hollow rage and fawning. You – the blushing sun of deviant throngs – inhale the breaking straw and follow south, while I – divorced of consequence and love – gut the innards of the angry clock and exhale my loathsome worship on your shrinking skin.

We lie dormant here, sullen and stretched between each ageing breath, opened by the fervent shadow. A million worlds, sunlit and drowning, aching in each hopeless place and waking doubtless, cold, impaled by song. Do you wonder of these drifting worlds? They are eternally dark for sorrow binds their transitory orbits. Yes, until the clicking wounds expire, where shadows tread the path from tumbling grace to burning awe.

Each place of rest has empty substance; a stairway winding, upwards through the bleeding water. These waterways and thoughts like arteries of blood – bloodletting, smoke-ridged, nothing upon years of nothing. Downward from the expiring mountain comes the glistening, golden terror of years. Have you come to drink its weeping, while lying in the terraces of our holy night?

Sometime on the evening bell, when night time frees itself from swollen wandering, the heavy willows see the empty house and lean upon your house-dress. Lower down – with wilting tears they take each curtain, pulled from silver hooks, and cast the fabric out, to sleep in sour cinders.

There – we sup and cower, hands drag feet and ankles – across the swallowing ridge. The dead have raised their faces to the dew, as the ship meanwhile dips to kiss and then distil the ocean into tiny cups. The ship repeats itself a million times – in death we starve of life and reach our own lost ocean. Finally reunited with ourselves, we sleep alone, assured of loves abandonment.

The sound of broken fire; drunken, torn from your fingers in the spring. Tiny fingers made of thorny bramble – O, the breathless scorn of morning flowers! These laughing echoes dance and drown our formless footprints. Night-birds call, repeal our doubts and cast themselves speechless through each window. Let me come to your sweet chamber – love, I have hands of molten kisses. Tender is the falling chalice, deadened by the waiting.

Lakes are Gods or tyrants born; their crystal chapels hidden in dark currents, their naked worship drained of blood and thrown into the reeds. This is where they send the youthful-born and those deranged by waiting – where migrant-lovers eat while kneeling over, touching through each other’s skin. Their empty funerals laid on butcher’s table, bare and bloody, rich with songs and poverty. They bellow here, the echoes in the mountain-song. Their deaths consumed by loving dirt – O dancing limits! Savour my young flesh awhile!

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