John Williams & Barbara Hepworth
Angel creating maggot meal
fly’s with razorblade wings,
a pure space opera sings.
Standing ovation with cellos
dreaming car in Satan’s bellows.
Bullet ripping earth
Grim reaper worth
Universal killing machine
any colour but green,
Stops and lays a bomb.
Holding a war heroes Knife
close you Laugh in my ear,
and enter my body through my side.
Moving upward to the medial pre-optic area
then steal my very soul.
You hide it in the fridge,
rumbling like a nuclear dialysis machine
along side some sausages
it waits solitary,
changing the kitchen.
After two weeks
with Solvang hound of Satan
you call again,
slip gently through my side
This time to the hippocampus and temporal lobe,
again you steal my newly regained soul
then hide it behind the curtains.
They swish forward
moving like torn dancing parachutes,
or wind blown crinoline frocks.
I staple them down
to the window frames.
This time after four days
you return with twenty four priests,
through my naval this time.
Shooting like an express train
up to my inferior collicus,
and steal my regained soul.
This time hiding it in the wall cavity.
Staples fly from window frames.
Curtains become rigid like starched collars,
and walls recede backward.
I press my ear to the wall
trying to listen for my soul.
Begging for it to return.
I press my eye against the flat surface,
hoping to see it
all I see is people filled rooms.
It comes every night now,
slowly slipping in
through my side
upwards to steal my soul.
Love of a word
filling in–between each letter
with empirical justification.
Is not poetry enough
to make a standard scream,
and word to falter
wither then die.
Love of a word
itself cannot be rewritten
by muse or simple nave,
like battleship to heaven,
then in your grave written.
Poetry is love of a word ..
Eyes burst open wide to yawn
Perfect crystal azure dawn,
Sunlight make prismic facade
For summer trees shaped with myriad braid.
To voice over streams whispering schemes
Shapes all breeze to path and follow
With clouds dancing over phantom hollow.
Leaden bird a song or cry
To mate in cloud on high,
Point’s away scarecrow seen
Where summertime already been.
Milking time cow egad
With gentle hoof pasture had,
Leaves in tail driving rod
To vex his horns on devils God,
Number plate ear part of a scenery
Frankenhoff Florist to farm creamery.
Sky above purple dessert like gown
Stir all life through wooden town,
Shrines a moon to ponder and wed
All dreams of folk asleep in bed,
Owl and fox who snap their feasts
Planetary eyes cur for more beasts.
Morning calls to everyone again
Old sleeping dog with no shame,
Leaves his bed keen for sniff on same old ground
Over green azure blue diamond sound.