Thudding, low-slung, slate-wool booms,
shuddering my thin, temple shell-bones -
the crumbling Norse-god
is still in senile residence,
drunk on elemental forces,
mashed up, swallowed raw;
lurching randomly - loudly bumping
around dark, cavernous starry domes;
his resurrected sounds bang, hurt
my overblown pressured eyeballs.
Tree-greens are badly transfigured
into exorcised, crude, colour-spirit;
too lurid without leaf body -
silver palm, white sun-blood;
light fingers - like angel claws -
scratch through malevolent blue;
forces wrestling for the troubled soul
of this wrongly-polished summer day.
The laughing river is choked with mercury;
the stern Presbyterian loch sterilised, black.
Sky is reading my heart and eyes -
translating, replicating, mimicking;
suddenly watering the redundant, wormy
rose with enormous, sluggish silver tears -
that burst out intemperately,
like heavenly blood-letting.
Monday, 7 July 2008
Sky is reading my heart and eyes
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