To clock-it-one with technicality,
or rather just being plain mean
March is three-quarters winter, one fourth spring,
and some cold days seem to float upside down,
dead in the water - with a note:
Please resuscitate.
High grey cloud-lid
lets you watch the jets
inbound and out of Manchester.
Pale lemon of a sun
seems a fruit grown in chronic deficiencies,
this year particularly,
since some mothering unconsciousness,
transparency suffused through my projection's
gone.
Sometimes the vast canvas of the universe of discourse -
the busy world upon the thinness of
that spherical blue contact lens of Gaia's eye,
whose billions are all as we
multi-centers of one web of tragedy,
that Zeus should torture-twist Promethean empathy
thought Shelly,
though Eliot laughed at him
for being adolescent, instead, for order and trim
thought Mussolini fine to run a train
with 'Time' made Hitler man of 1938
when Auden and his 30's poets brigade
over a decade since knew
all the species of the monsters...
Matters to me that Eliot was amiss
while Hemingway had found his way,
Picasso saw the Stuka scream.
We justify our schemes to cheat,
to fit a camel through a needle's eye,
climb pyramids of clay to fly on scarab wings,
claim islands for ourselves in Faustus' name,
to have and have the have-nots keep away,
deprive them of the strength to wreck our day,
send out Procrustes and his assessors
to chop off ladders, ankles
under any trying to balance nowt with nowt
turn off all life-support
because they dare to lift their humble snouts
and criticize such inequalities -
sometimes I sit with nothing under empty trees
and nod on void and wonder how to write.
