THE BELLS
The dangling of bells
...amid faint tingling,
the inspirational nature of their lies
between each peal.
Classical repertoire, then dryness.
Heavy swelter, the green ore
iron casting of the golden bell
clangs into the night.
Its dash against dry stone
a special brand of hideousness.
Naked madness,
the jangle of the noise
torn from the throat of night,
tucked between the rage of sightless villagers;
their torn members
toys of plastic
wedged obscene within the dash of withered bells.
[16]
THE WORLD OF DYING LOVE
The long finger of blackness is holding its head for us.
Dingy bue is its shade,
comatose in movement, hazarding a slow swiftness,
it inches toward us.
Relief comes fitfully.
The dragon alone, an upstart
crowned with drunken spending,
has horse colours as ribbons with his eyes.
It cradles a breast of trembling bone.
Misercorde, Misercorde.
I dreamt I saw skeletal slackness
dangling;
the poverty of touch is a casket with love in rumbling sockets.
Craziness is the passion of the engulfed,
dribbling pleasantly.
Presentations extended beyond and into themselves.
Slackness schemes with invalid awareness
in a brothel of hope.
[17]
Part II
