And I miss you with a passion

You are the sea, forever spiritual, intelligent and beautiful.
I am a wave, lonely, but completed by you.
I continuously move forwards and backwards; away from you and returning to you. But next year the shore will no longer call me...Next year King Canute's command will be obeyed.


A.T.

A loving father, a difficult wife

A concrete Eden.
Pave the way forward,
Toward the lowly exit.
Trouble in Paradise lovingly overlooked,
Her eyes -
Just an organ, an organ.
He's playing to your tune no longer.


Adam Thomas

III + IV

III.
They wanted to scoop out his heart,
Stop him from ticking and from beating,
Between and amongst the faithless he darts,
A gold-grey man paralysed by the din of human bleating
The warring music of grunting, squealing, squeaking.

Squashed faces (like rotting fruit)
Feline grins and clawed waves - purile salutes
Staggering through human compost,
Technicolour seeping from culture lost,
Skinless figures, hairless figures
Barbed like jasper wasps.

And above us all, dormant under heaven,
The moon, our moon - crumpled as a paper plate.
Poisoned and alone, stars awash in brassy, urinal space,
A glimpse into Hell, reveal and revel the taste
Of a place shunned by Ghost, Son and Father's face.


IV.
And for all the neon,
And for all the light,
No electricity could I feel in the air.
As though, everywhere,
The bunched consciousness of man had disappeared -
Dispersed and fled,
Like cruel farmers leaving little piglets unfed,
Like cruel mothers (on trams no less)
Leaving sickly pink babes unfed,
Sore throated Man's thirst for baser instinct
quenched instead.

D.B.B

Misiminay

En Septmebre, je suis allé en Pérou, à Misiminay dans les Andes, avec vingt gens chouette. Ceci était notre expérience. Je l’ai écrit en quittant le village.

Misiminay

I live in a house built of clay bricks, that I made
I have to brave the elements everyday, in clothes that I made
I need to work for hours to make little return
I eat the animals I have personally reared and slaughtered

But I’m surrounded by views you can’t comprehend
But I see the stars, clear as day, every night
But I always make the most of what I have
But I am happier and more at peace than you will ever be

the schools were all busy like the prisons and the hospitals

- we weren't ill but, rather, made patrons,

and as patrons, we were made ill -

as full as the leather bags

below

mummy's eyes.

crucified en masse -

as though in mass

the reverend Beelezebub marks her third sermon

in some fusty hallway

a hundred years ago.

D.B.B

II

II.
Step backwards and lose your footing,

Clawing

at loose and looser grips;

Daddy’s long legs crucified

(clinging to what vitality is left)

your face not mortified, but perplexed -

Still alive.

Peeled lids and tardy pupils -

A spastic ceremony with bastard dancers -

You find yourself scrambling in the romance of middle time.

A bomb killed and filled everything but time -

still the wasp is humming the lines of Chaucer and Dante,

though burnt ears blur rhyme -

The music of cat paws pounce ‘pon your mind

like negro fingers fingering a dead piano in the lobby of a hotel

notes heavensent suspended hung,

lingering and up strung.

Blind, you step backwards and lose your footing,

yawning and yawning and yawning.

D.B.B

I

I.

Trailing wolf eyes half hide

his lolling brow -

The heavy gait of a blind man

dreaming -

Pacing

in his room -

Shame sheilded with a toothless baby smile -

No! Pride, masked

though, still, too afraid to ask,

he sung to himself all the while:

"The glow of lamplight extinguished itself

As I trampled the familiar breadtrail beneath,

Seeking relief from the crash of shore against sea,

Percussion like a cat o' ninetails

Percussion like the dash of jail-bells

Upon sobbing prop-er-tee.

Upon red-hot, black-blue men

Like me,
Like me."

***

And now,

Well now,

White noise spills from the lungs of little boys

Choking on the subtle funk of lust.

Putridity rising and rising from an invisible gore.

Taciturn leers go unreplied as his wolf eyes

Trail far more than before,

Hooked in the white meat of a fat back,

An obsidian egg, first, must burst and crack

as the numerals read nought above his back,

Blind to the disintegration of his own mortal almanac.

D.B.B

Grass unshaken

Like the rising of the sun or the changing of the tide, unoriginally, he draws his first breath.
Trees overhang his stream of consciousness,
Old farm buildings and the homes of the working-class Frenchman poke out from above the leafy banks.
Whilst islands of lilies bask in the brilliance of the mid-day light,
He journeys on, his strokes swift and monotonous.

Events make more than just ripples on the stream of his life; a strong longing for what is already lost as in Virginia Woolf’s
The Waves crash against his side, but he floats on – undeterred.
Chaque jour il n’est jamais seul, mais il est parfoir solitaire,
The wind is light; the bank is still but for the solemn passer-by,
An engraved St Christopher pendant on a thin silver chain can be seen running through his slender fingers

Dragonflies flit to and fro around his head, like mere acquaintances at a party,
Time will whisper to him, help him with his realization of the longing for the one with the beautiful colour, the truest flight.
His surroundings have a resounding affect on him, though there is anticipation for the unknown,
Peaceful thoughts.
The stream finally narrows as his drooping eyelids lead his body in the parade of sleep.


Adam Thomas

Diego Alverez

I am a tightrope walker leading an unbalanced lifestyle
I am a tannoy talker speaking softly to a sweetheart
Hear the lonely milk train thundering down the Boulevard St Michel
I won’t talk over you, but I have something to say

I don’t want to hear your stories, but feel free to write them down
We’re always on Christian names when we meet
Alone like Diego Alvarez
I will walk over you, now I have discovered you

Adam Thomas