journey

Dark Night of the Soul

shrieking under folds of blackness,
hands clawing at the fabric of an unlit tent.
veins swelling in a vacuum, empty eye sockets wide.
the midnight of his memory full of monsters.
what we know as horror: the crossing of death into life,
the corpse walking with a blind smile,
the puppets jerking at their strings.
his mother's bloody grin, holding her own head by the hair,
and he ran out the door into the apocalypse they promised him:
the destiny of the destroyed atom, and a trillion ghosts
left to roam a nightmare planet in unfinished visions.

slicing himself for the feeling of bright sharpness, the reality.
sky on a frozen winter's day, the cloud diamondcutter.
the clarity when he first loved her, when he first recognised her
and became a river running to her. the deathly fear
when he lay awake in the living night-time, presences
crowding in his awareness, afraid to turn over.
when he took the elevator to the basement of his mind
and found the mutilated man, madness shining in his remaining eye.
the boy in the abandoned house who swallowed a living scorpion -
tongue numb with venom, his skin turned black and livid -
but inside he became a storm of daisies, summer light and wind.
someone who would love the demons and angels alike -
an alchemist, at war with the dead physics of his universe.

strange notes from the other side of a drugged mind:
"what the FUCK happens when we die?" and the feeling
of crossing into an unknown land. his only journey:
miles of roads lined with bodies and flowers, tiger paws,
daggers, vertigo footage from cameras falling off cliffs.
or, like faded newsreel, spotted and flickering, set to the sound
of muttering, whispering voices, old showtunes:
the body's last words,
spoken on a sunlit evening stretching into neverness.

Spirals

every morning we turn to see each other
in pale light through frosty windows,
or warm sun and leaf-shadows

I realize again that I always want to wake up
to the soft breath from your open mouth
and the gentle smell of your hair

to make my journeys in the white daytime
never knowing where I am being led
or if this time the way back will be lost

and in the evening to hold you in the dark
as we surrender to everything again
and say goodbye as if this time is the last

Travelling Home

Lord, when the night falls,
leave me enough light to see
the stars in the water.

When you line the roads
with roaring shadows,
let the house glow in the distance.

Let the sky shine blue for hours
at the fringe of the hills
as the children return from the fields.

When the train slides softly
past endless farmhouses,
ghostly in frost and fog,

let there be a golden wreath
on every bare branch
as your red sun rises.