Austin McCarron, 10/12

The City is Electric

The city is electric.
I shudder by the Thames
and water fills my hand.

I break like a thunderous cloud
and become a song of rain.
Behind me
I hear feet of liquid dances and
it is wet,
the suit of light, the sun of voices.

I silence the melody of downpours
and floods.
On my tongue a parlour of eyes.
In the river I see a monsoon of stars,
where nature
is beheaded and nothing is saved.

I Revive Flesh of the Abandoned Seed

I revive flesh of the abandoned seed
and it is like a tongue of sleep, stripped
of perspective, choosing words to live.

I dream of nothing and it is like the opinion
of death, transformed by searchers of pain.

In the morning I wave flags of mist and the sun
is hanging off a rope of bridges.
I grow from clouds of calm cities mountains and
I pour myself out of blue and green canyons.
I hold the throat of images in a bed of snakes.

Between cheeks of earth the rain falls like a void
of gold kisses.
I trouble vision with
utmost cruelty and it is the most silent act of love.

I lay flowers at the grave of death and its corpse
is weeping with the colour of man.
In time its hair sparkles with despairing voices but
its conscience tripped up like flames burns forever.

In Parts of Europe

In parts of Europe
I wash
in fields of silent water,

where suffering is complete
and stars rinse the mouth
of time and doors of unhinged

hearts spring open, and forests
of snow return the blood of history
like wine drunk in memory of fire

and wine drunk in memory of flame.
Chief among broken words,
the sound of winding hospitals and
never again shall the blind man see.

Over Yellow Hills, Fresh

Over yellow hills, fresh
with violent storms, the wind
is my death, dreaming without me,
before the ghost of time.

The water is clean like blades
of solitude.
I drink the
meal of deserts with cloudy hands.
Arriving in the silence, terrible
ecstasies, indescribable cruelties.

Released Naked, the Coast

Released naked, the coast
is like a storm of clouds,
gladdened by settlements of tree
and rock, prayer of scandalous
impunity, cities of newly destroyed
claims, the ferry of
machines in water of tyrannical baths.

In a childhood of flames I read of the sea
and it is a book of silence and emptiness,
where blood
makes a sound like the beginning of waves.

I journey south and the moon is part of light
and stars fall
like gravel on ridges of narrow consolation.
I pass inhuman debris on a road of extinct views.
Freely I imagine the sacrifice of unclean animals
and the protection of
anonymous margins by crosses of purely defined air.

Promote. Poetry.
FacebookTwitterGoogle+PinterestBlogger PostTumblrGoogle GmailLineYahoo MailRediff MyPageKindle ItGoogle BookmarksShare