In
morning grey the shadow lay
beside the body of its master
and no one else knew the disaster
Nor would know it even
after
it hit the headlines of the papers
(next
to news of mother-rapers) No one dies you’ll no doubt find
who doesn’t leave some thing behind. 29 November
1970 An orange moon.
Seventeen stars.
A thousand
crickets.
A row of trees.
A cottage.
An open window.
And I.
Stuck
to the magnet of night. 4 July 1971 Between
twilight and night.
The angels of evening sing to me.
I see their faces
off in the distance.
My legs draw my body to its feet.
The door opens.
I
am lost. 4 July 1971 Every object
lets go of every other.
My view before me is chopped up.
I can make no sense
of it.
God has returned. The end is come. 4 July 1971 It
is a play performed with mirrors.
Each actor acts out his part, while
holding
before him a mirror,
faced to the audience.
The play has had three performances.
It
has bombed.
I am alone in the audience.
This last performance is for me.
4
July 1971 I saw a boy on his Empire of Sand
with his
shovel in his hand.
He looked odd.
I said ”What's your name, little
boy?”
He said, “God.”
I said, “That's nice,” and
turned around.
He hit me on the head
with his shovel—I went down.
17
July 1971 The sky is blue-black.
I kiss it; it hugs
me back.
Like a big black bear, it squeezes too hard,
breaks all my bones;
I lie dead in the yard. 28 July 1971 Across
the galaxies, God speaks.
"Long time no see! How time flies!"
Says
He, returning from vacation.
"Oh shit! I forgot to turn off the gas!" 28
July 1971 God is five million crickets in the grass.
God is shit
in my ass. 5 August 1971 I am cold with the chill
of early Fall,
Ill with the thrill of a frightening call . . . A part
of all — the sun,
The trees, the wind, the sea —
Is there any
part for me? 15 November 1971 No, it is not blue
circles
of tinted dust that make me watch,
Or bands of fire that make me
stare,
Nor any more is it even one fine beautiful
woman's hair.
It is
a stare — of blank stupid wonder —
at everything. 15
November 1971 If I could at least be king
in whatever realm I chose.
I
live in the Empire of Rust,
on the Island of the Evening,
among the icy
clouds of space,
dangling above the ground — unable
to touch —-
like a man who is hanged. 15 November 1971 The
shadows are the soft down of a black cat's fur.
The moon is like a yellow eye.
The
town has the sound of a woman's soft sigh,
And across her sweet thigh, I lie. 17
November 1971 A still, cool river of peace
Oh, and what a soothing
chill
And a figure with a flute sits on a hill
Nearby.
I know he plays
for my woman and I. I know he plays for my woman and I.
The cat gently
moans, I open and close one eye.
"Yes I know, little love," I whisper
and sigh. 17 November 1971
Written
November 1970 - 1971; compiled & slightly revised 7 April 2012
©
1970, 1971, 2012 Ralph Dumain
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