Shrivelled, exposed, cold,
warps,  wefts waste away
the body afflicted with decay
O!, I say, the hey-ho way of the live-long-day..

Whatever has lived will wither, languish, and decay.
time pines us all away
aghast in a quagmire of guilt, regret
spilt water, wine? I forget..

No transubstantiation this,
no move into immortal bliss:
this work of resistance is an inception in art
of all the heart-wrung soul that is left in me..

A lamenting for.....
the passing of the light?
maybe, but, no, not quite
a winter tree stripped,
bent, gnarled, entwined in the winds of time.
a  modulation of voice, a volte-face:
A variation in rhyme.

Surely, no man
has such bad intent as to awaken from sleep
those legions of demons that laugh as we weep?

Stripped down, dying back to the root,
we leave a shadow behind the sun.
from which we take such passing grace,
blown in hot breezes, freezes
the many faces of history,
into a repetition
spiced with all the dusty uncertainty of victory,
streaked with the blood-red tears ,
of my love in Moorish Al-andalus.

We need to break the false prophets, priests
posing roguish politicos
who confuse our days and steal our dreams away…
release us from all those who shout, insist that we twist
the days’ mysteries into the measliness of wish, 
reducible to money, power, prestige

We need empty space and time. .
for everything under heaven is strange and new.
and resists the conformity of rhyme.

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