UNLIKELIEST OF INCLINATIONS
Unlikeliest of inclinations. Poetic madness
in the face of common sensical catastrophe.
I’m writing this for no one’s sake, not even
my own, a gust of stars in a back alley,
vertiginous dust devils of skirling snow
nipping at my winged heels like frost-bite.
Routinely annihilated at the crossroads
of celestial equators intersecting skewed ecliptics,
the surrealistic mystic in me dances in protest
at the nave of a jinxed prayer wheel
mistakenly enlightened by a yellow daffodil.
I could have been a lightning rod. I could have been
a weathervane, a sundial, an astrolabe , an astronaut,
an astronomer measuring the eyelashes of the stars
in a spectrographic analysis of the tree rings
in the heartwood of the light. As it happens
I’m squatting in the thirteenth house of the zodiac
dodging wrecking balls like a punchy boxer
whose sea legs keep being swept out from under him
by black ice that wants him to take the fall.
Adjust according to circumstances laying bets off
against the smart money I won’t make it
out of this coma to show up for the next round.
If so, I want my coffin to be a cabal
of underground resistance to the death of me.
I want to thrust my clenched fist through the duff
of everything that’s ever unfeathered me in life
like a mushroom in a sacred grove of black swans
waiting for the plumage of new moons to break
into a flightfeather of white light that isn’t mocked
by pink-eyed albino crows driving the fire
of foxes into deep snow to peck their eyes out
like militant evangelists of the colour-blind.
One moment I’m riding Pegasus bareback
with Deneb and Albireo spurring me on
to greater heights than I’ve ever soared before
and the next I’m devoted to this discipline
of turning my insides out lyrically like a pinata
hanging like a medicine bag from a black walnut tree,
bleeding siloes of Virgoan starwheat out of the wound
of a lunar bull Mithras Tauroctonus is sacrificing
like a cornucopia for waiting scorpions, dogs, and snakes
whose symbology is lost upon me like the arcane taste
of alien sensibilities who don’t speak
the same dream grammar I do without an accent.
No end of the doors or the million ways
you have of saying nothing when you approach
your folly like a priest instead of a sacred clown
blowing the pollen of mountain flowers
like gold dust from the palm of your hand,
or gusts of stars roosting in your eyebrows
like chalk starmaps ageing at a blackboard.
I see you trying on lives like different meanings
to pre-determine what pleases the mirrors best,
as if you didn’t so much express as calibrate
what moves you most like the tantric pique
of a yogic paperclip disguised as a praying mantis.
There’s no conviction to your absurdity
so your peacocks lack the courage to sing.
Your lions roar, but the victory goes to the blackflies.
Are you still hunting pygmies with harpoons?