Despair is solace to a sane man

who has sought

the epic good

the prisoner told himself.

In a world turned rancid

this further twist of agony

gives confirmation of

his life.

Or so an insane man

might reason.

A sane man is driven mad by

injustice, said Swift while

echoing Socrates

and they should know.

The prisoner nodded to himself

and stretched his shackled feet.

For the sane man crisis

looms in the shadows

of events

when the world

exhausted by the toil

of vigilance

no longer watches.

As fashion sweeps it on

to other causes

the torturer emerges

freer than before

safer and

more vicious.

Socrates knew that

and Swift knew it too.

The prisoner jangled his chains.

He makes us strangers

to ourselves, he realized.

We end up asking

who are we?

and we are

to some extent

living inside strangers.

Inside the rhythm

of an age

a kind of upswing brings

the deadliest of winters

to a close

offers light

and lends assertion to

a doubtful future

paints tomorrow in a

brighter hue and

takes the edge off things.

It gives the tramp of

men and women

that breath of hope

they feel when animals

are heard once more

bleating for their absent

parents.

Time’s their author...

It’s the pulse forebodes

the sequent beat.

Progeniture emerges...

Is it sane or rampant men

who have touched the steel

the eagle feels when locked

behind canary bars?

the prisoner asked.

The world bewares

and feels the force of

his conviction when

the eagle’s cage erupts.

His energy emerges...

Parents standing sentinel over

their children’s past allow

re-entry on their own

terms only

so the troubled adult-child

finds no trace of what’s

been left behind.

The nights of horror

unanswered screams

the dark...

the dark betrayals...

Can calmness ever come

or is it all too late?

The cynic’s hand must sift

perhaps.

If the quest’s refused

the childhood screams

are heard forever

spiralling into and round

the void.

Perhaps forever.

And prophecy emerges...

Revolutions born of blood

make brutal parents

to a youthful hope

he thought.

Watch children’s expectations

says a voice

keep evolution spry

avoid the blood of infants

relentlessly emerging...

The wounded man

who dies

amid the concern of

strangers

dies inside the family

all streets contain

their parent, crisis

their shared blood, care.

And passion sweeps them on...

A smiling man is tied to a post

in a field.

His smile says

I love the world

as he confronts the

firing squad

made up of other

troubled men.

A holocaust field of

fire.

Can he ever share his outcast state?

The leaking raft of passion

sweeps him on...

The child-fascist dreams

at supper.

The naked executioner

raises his sword

calls on his ancestors

strikes

smites

cleaves

split’s the enemy’s skull

sends up a visceral whipstream

and bathes in the smears of

riven cortex

the colours pink

and saffron

the feelings of the onlooker

perpetually

nauseous

the story ending in

collateral

collapse.

Eat up your meal

says a voice

in the child-fascist’s ear

as more of humanity

is devoured.

And fashion sweeps it on...

After being imprisoned for

such a time, said the prisoner

on his release

I longed to lie with another

of my species.

As I learned more about

our nuclear advancements

our wars

our loss

my past

the spots of time

the longing grew.

The years flipped past like

pages of a notebook

cartoon years

cartoon pages

spots of time

authored time

in relation to the

terrifying whole.

The fruit so ripe for picking

now

a quarter century later

the need increased.

I wanted human contact

love

warmth

someone to hold

to grip

at a time when even God

was dwarfed by man’s

inventiveness.

So...

When it was done, and she had sunk

into her slumber

I felt more desperate than ever

as if, perhaps, I were in the eye

of the mushroom.

And now

yes, now...

the weakness that I feel

the awful sense of desolation

all the light gone

even the mind’s.

I remember when the spirit died

I remember

a vision of Europe

the world

all our history

repeated marching

not just of soldiers

sweeping people on...

Cadmium and lapis of the

Middle Ages.

At last I understood their meaning.

When man was crushed by God

and so belonged to one huge

family

however fierce.

In this awakening

and in this kind of death

I cried the world’s tears

but they hardly knew their way

down my face.

Time’s my author.

I heard the wind scream around

the caverns of our hope

and felt the kindly

brutal ministrations

of the people I was coming

closer to

before leaving them

forever.

It was like the rebirth of

adolescence.

Then epic silence in those

caverns

the birth of strength

carried from sea to shore

aboard a shell.

On the sand stood

malcontents

malevolents

common sensers

dark, darkened souls.

A long pause in the

long, long silence

then they advanced

a murder of crows

sweeping through me

disharmony emerging...

They make us strangers

to ourselves.

We end up asking

who are we?

and we are

to some extent

living inside strangers.

They fed me visions, and I

who had thought no freedom

worth preserving at such

appalling nuclear cost

saw Hitler in a funny hat

his finger trembling above

the terminal switch.

Whose bomb is it anyway?

said the voice. Or was it

me asking?

What’s seeing?

What’s madness, other than

awakening?

What’s poetry?

The first, the second of

several doors?

A door accidentally opened

just brushed against?

Insanity easily emerges...

And when you open the door

what’s the vision?

Christ, perhaps, all private

on His shortened Cross

deprived of public spectacle?

A closet Christ, brought out

for those who make demands

like Julian of Norwich

enjoying His pain because

she loved Him so much.

Obscene, really, reliving it on

such a small scale

like masturbation

or keeping a neutron bomb

in the bathroom

propped against the sink

at night.

That’s when they’ll come, of course

as mushrooms crouching

in the night

just when you think they’ve gone

like panthers on the stairs

and ruffians returned from

human travel

the world between the cracks

Hitlers in their funny hats

fists above the trigger

swept along by fashion’s needs...

They make us strangers

to ourselves.

We end up asking

who are we?

and we are

to some extent

living inside strangers.

The leaking raft of passion

swept him on

along the river full of

crocodiles

bilharzia

and poison

as it rushed, upturned

towards the waterfall

whose rocks below

were sharpened by the fall

of other vessels.

Trouble, he acknowledged

lies in store for one who

cannot swim.

Even then he saw his

ropes were loose and his

water-wings had burst.

And panic soon emerges...

Christmas Eve brings gutter-rolling

madness to the town

and with it comes the end of

civilized provincialism.

The world is drunk

and every corner knows

a lurking menace while

in this part of Christendom

come revelations.

Who could have guessed those

supermarket check-out girls

so sweet

so nice

such husband-bait

were really dykes

about to ring another’s till

their freedom now emerging...

Never let the painter in

the prisoner said.

He’d like to be time’s author.

You let another painter in

the one who wore a funny hat.

He made you strangers

to yourselves.

When searching for a language

said one girl

to describe the hollow

in my soul

– she used this kind of speech

before she’d rung the other’s till

because she’d like to be

an  author –

I listen for a rhythm that transforms

the cave’s austerity into

a recognizable pulse

requiring answers

from the troubled

darkened wood.

Her friend took a mighty swig

of rum and contemplated

anger.

When silence greets my hungry search

I tap out music on

a crystal tumbler as it

travels to my lips.

It creates a journey out of

drinking Chardonnay

a safari of my food

an excursion of the fork.

The pacing waiter is forestalled.

Let the meal begin again

let the meat and fish be fresh

let the gourmand have his day.

Most of all, allow the

management

to pay.

Two bed-lubbed lovers

male and female

like whales beneath the surface

writhe

nudge

collide

amid the sheets and blankets

which protect them from

the scrutiny of sailors

during this strangest belly-dance

the seas have ever seen.

Scrutable, she lays naked

on a chequered cloth

stretching once lean, tight

flanks grown blubbery

moaning

yelling

writhing

as only she is able

across the marmalade and paw-paw

thinking of the East

while she screws upon the table.

Then, swept along by passion

her ecstasy emerges...

She’s become a stranger

to herself.

She ends up asking

what am I?

and she does

to some extent

live inside the dreams

of troubled men.

Where did my optimism go?

she asked.

It used to be my author.

I was young

I was keen

I was passionate

I was trusting

What made me think it all madness?

Was it country

was it friends

was it school

was it my lover?

Yes, my lover made me.

It was my lover made me...

I was borne along by wings of hope.

Why, on landing, was I raped?

Because I loved believing.

These thoughts, I must admit

twist me inside out.

I’ve heard, somewhere, of

sable corridors

but I don’t know what they are

and words which mean

astonishment

and hope.

What should I call you, then?

Let’s choose something more private

more personal

much more wonderful

than God.

What’s good enough for you

my stranger guide

my time-erupter

my permitted fruit?

Something to describe how you are there

on stillborn days as well

as ripe.

Please tell me what to call you.

Astonish me...

I end up asking

who am I?

and do

to some extent

live inside your

strangeness.

Birds which cluster on five telephone wires

Arrange themselves like careful, upturned

Crotchets and, as they quiver

Herald the birth of flight to come.

I looked, she said, for words

to cover

bafflement

as I approached

the greedy precipice

knowing swallows were as

dangerous to me

as hawks.

I wait for death...

To you, my ex-lover

I bequeath ill-will.

May you rot

may you flounder

may you sink

and may you drown

may you slip into oblivion

pursued by menace

chased by malice.

I bid you all the worst

I wish you hurt

I am quite prepared to

lick your cuts

with a septic tongue

to lose myself in your wounds’

crevasse.

May it widen, may it

stretch...

The stream runs purple with a

Saviour’s blood

observed the prisoner

and even I

a non-believer

am shocked as this

loosely spilt blood

distils on rocks of

chiselled hope.

It is one type of ambiguity.

It sweeps along.

Its significance emerges...

Don’t you know, sang

the supermarket girl

that I see things

through your eyes

feel things with

your hands

taste life in

your joy?

Yesterday I saw foxes dancing

on the lawn.

Sweeping

sweeping

come in from the

wilderness...

I’ll love you for the intensity

you brought me to.

You brought to me.

You rearranged the days.

I’m grateful for the love of time

you gave me

in the sun.

Sweeping, sweeping, they danced

on frosted earth

consumed by passion

of the wild.

Her friend replied, while drinking heavily

her double rum.

How I loathe the feebleness

the lack of energy

the uncommitment

of people who pretend they’re

working from within to bring

the structures down

when all they do is

prop them up

and irritate me

and lazy talkers who refuse to

tear apart the fabric

explode the filthy realm

demolish the now

and glut their ire

their reticence emerging...

They’re all strangers

to me now.

To some extent

they want to live inside

me.

My inner strength of

malt

and

cane

and

pill

and

herb

the authors of my life.

Flesh and bone

within the frame

tight-bowelled

tight-arsed

tightened with delight

magnificently firm

filled

bursting at the brim.

Like spermflood, said the voice

as she continued drinking.

Stalker of your dreams

author of your times.

None of you is safe

I can enter anywhere.

I wear a funny hat.

Anywhere.

Anyone.

Any way...

You’ve no longer peace

and certainly no sanctity

no sanctuary.

I can put pleasure

in your rectal tube

and make you smile

with shame.

I have insinuated myself everywhere

and I am truly mighty.

Truly.

Who’s safe when I’m about?

And I always am

will be

and, parents testify

always was and have been.

Come, I’ll make you strangers

to yourselves...

Four Oriental boys play

beneath the window

inscrutable as cowboys

spacemen

Indians.

Fat, they waddle round

the courtyard

making flapping noises

with their jowls

implying death

to one another.

All day long they waddle

flapping death at one another

playing

flapping death

at one another

with their floppy jowls.

A fifth is lean and cautious

and moves a careful foot

towards the gate.

They’d make a sacrifice of him

but already he has learned the need

to dominate.

He wears a funny hat

his influence emerging...

He must, to some extent

live inside

them.

When, torn by accusations

thought his frightened friend

who hid behind the gate

I was abandoned

in the night

and thought of all the terrors

I had known before we met

on wasteland

in sable corridors

- whatever they are -

the horrors in the streets

the pain

the memory

the savagery

only checked by visions of

your goodness.

I lived, to some extent

inside you.

You were the author of my heart.

Then you embraced me

and I knew how

swept by passion

Jesus felt

when kissed

by Judas

his significance emerging...

I cannot stand, the prisoner

thought

the stillness of the night

when people leave

no trace

when I’m protected from

their needs

hidden from their deeds

and sheltered from

their awful love

of fashion.

I used to rush headlong

into the nightmare of

the days.

The sacrifice emerges...

When the prisoner died his

autumn death

newborn pups lolloped round

his once-shackled feet.

His eyes had begun their sleep

and found no joy in renewal of

another species.

My love is nothing like the sun

he murmured

unless it be eclipsed.

But, of course, it would be

if I closed my eyes and

kissed your lips.

And so the sinking, dying raft

of passion

swept him on...

The torturer emerges

safer than before

redeemed by fashion.

He makes us strangers

to ourselves.

We end up asking

who are we?

and we are

to some extent

living inside the memories of strangers.

How will the Martians be?

asked the prisoner’s child.

Will they be scientists

damning art?

Will they say that Beethoven’s music

broadcast over space

by astronauts

is unenlightened

has no feeling

and is dull?

Will they say

Inattentive

could do better

what a shame he stopped at nine

before he’d really started

his potential just emerging...?

How will the Martians be

how will the Martians be

will we stop at World War Three?

Finally, as Auden said

there must be love.

When the world has roared

her children raged

torn their clothes and

passions into tatters

and wondered who they are...

Then, finally, they know

there must be love

to sweep them on

to help their confidence emerge

and teach them that they really are

no longer strangers

to themselves.

                     ***