July 2022
I Blue skies shimmer Half border, all soft And into the pillow lands we go. II Skyborn cotton seas We leave behind. III The grid of the possible Stretches laconic beneath. Ancient secrets, modern woes Make furdid journey-crossings. IV Glitter-castle crumbles Into the purple slate of the sky Its fire lights reappear Second after second. V Floors wrapped in golden foil And dusty redden rooves. Between the lacuna of views Hearts jump, minds lurch And before sweet seconds have passed In the shadow peril of a holiday gone wrong The Greek has found his footing. VI As soft as the touch of your skin Meet ripples recede Into bluegrey depths The suede of salt - a boat cuts through hoisted up onto limpéd metal legs It flies close to flat, quivering grounds The peaks recede Lots in colours of air Wrinkled cloths draped over Stony cheek. VII The crags of a broken place Boulder-hewn, peer up over the skyline A dark, rich mass of cuttlefish bo rn. Twinkles, once eerie Now sing with the music Arabesque, featureless fires The riffs of abandon Of a familiar mystery Of a known unknown. This is a warm country A heartfelt country A place where I can go And toe the line between angst and lost delusions of a time that was never mine. I find moments, that peer through Golden sun-sparkles on granite, littered patios Pieces of a strange substance That float in the Styx. I find, on my back, Enveloped in the eversoft waters A quiet. A quiet that has not known me Since I changed my name to Progression Since I absolved and abstracted away, and now When I lie in the sun and dream erotic dreams The beads on my forehead are not trepid, but bliss The shakes are mistakes, and not victories My resolve is lateral, latent, yawning sideways Across lazy hills That plunge out of leary cityscapes It is a cool sip From the plumbox It is a depth, a life, A mental wander to an Atlantic, Buried under virii. VIII Blue and yellow Are the first colours. The liquid shade Makes body, strength, growth Into softness. It dissolves away mountains Buries rocks beneath sight XI The perfect curve Of molten iron Complete, in the sky Looks over the great sameness. With tiny traces, white flies Skip across the water. The tree Cowers back From the yellowgray castle cliffs Its stones scattered Into spider lines. It was the fierce hum of energy That found me. Amidst a kind of massive, empty vessel Of people, of things, Of water and air That was all. It was the bleakness behind Each day of the small. Every Act which seemed only to flow from another. It Came and went behind the surface of the landscape Like the second lens in a camera, at one time close and at another focus, so so far. It was hidden in the minutia of details. There was no container. Only a vast thing which made everything. A Kind of energy in perception. It did not build not structure - for there was no space betwixt its mighty tresses. It only was. This was the place where lights lose dimension, becoming tiny odd sequins on shapen dress. The two mounds of the hills, bare of foliage, rose like breasts above the white jungle of the city. The peak of the most distant mountain rose like a nose. Here it was that I saw the great thing behind things. The simplicity of it all. The irreducible that finds its way into every rounded figure. That extra object that cannot be accounted for. We were standing right in it.