Deadly Pollen | Page 3

launchers pass
by and
grin, heading for the glacire.

*
'The Breaking of Nations'
a horse cough, as history laments
its own
passing. What ghosts
urge these riots? Memory is dead,
flags and
banners dissolve back
into thoroughfares. The East
is reliquary;
bone splinter and shrapnel
mixed in daily. What ghosts urge
these
riots? Barbarism looms in
the triumph of immediacy, a final exit

from the Garden of Eden, bombs
bristling moments ago at cockcrow.
*
'A line is taking a full-stop
for a walk,' said Klee. A straight
line is
the supreme act of cruelty;
is intent without reprieve, ambush
and
final judgement; Alpha
and Omega, the beginning and end,

(bullet-to-victim); the scroll of
credits, a squadron of lines;
the
banding of speech, a geology
of sound; the blade tilt of horizon
that
bloodies a sun; is gravity
compressed and a disk flung wide,
is
flatness departing life to nothing -
spear cast on a plain at sunset.
*
Buildings off the crustal shelf,
drop shouldered - lean to, against the

sky in crazy surrealist back drop,
expressionist haze is shock
amongst
rubble and safety helmets spotted
lamp-lit - an engine
harvests an infant,
luckily, dead pale but pained; dust
cakes sudden
caves by a broken
10th floor grounded, bedraggled beneath

re-inforcing caged. Tectonic plates
lock brake drums an instant on the

Richter scale. Taiwan slips
on the tooth of a cog.
*
Generalization of Old World
caught in the plane's sweep. Look up!

sound makes memory after.
Dragging loss is violence; O ye
who

suffer banishment, nourishment
grounded. Dearth 'tis. Rabble is

ordinary, a thing apart, the jackal
at play, toying with world's
diamonds,
spittle aglitter. Laughter strewn,
down-compressed to
mud. From whence
the swing and arc, blood's roar rose,
gave
judder to the first step - before
the word, the wind in the word;

rabble speech was. In the beginning.
*
CEOs in castles cascade
in cash, silent as a cyber virus -
the
invisible hides cause-and-effect,
stock taken, bartered in Japan -
via
Belarus every back yard where
falls a city's shadow looming
over
the last, dead chimney pot,
not even moon can empty its
chamber
pot of yellow, silver slops
into alleyways crackling with
plastic
syringes, used condoms,
blood trails, slewed off into a
wilderness
of free ways, high rise.
O the dead arise in elevators nightly
as
Pharisees burst into the Temple.
*
Footprints for satellites?
An old game. The Mayas knew it;
land
forms camouflaged, star
charts, airy bestiaries, eagle, lama,

beastback mountain sides, white
pebbled Milky Way, an ancestral

footbridge. Look down or up,
backwards or forwards. Weirdly,

rotating our options, weighing odds;
caught in bristling cyberspace

or a stone corbelled chamber.
Either way, it'll make you dizzy.

Once is as it ever was, ever shall be:
Gods walk out upon a path of
stars.
*
Is recollection seeing anew,
old pieces, rearranged, seemingly?

Letting go of nothing suggests: -
(like) air conditioning, computer
hum.
Waiting for nothing. Omphalos;

world-centre, mind nadir,
still point
about which everything revolves.
God's paper chase.

Omphalos,
mind's umbilical. Stone sunk
to bottom of the lake is
memory,
incarnation. Mind skip back before
instinct saw dark
eclipse. Sky shield.
Moon boss. Through vast chthonic
reservoirs,
horizon, swept aside.
*
So. Earth's most dramatic
'bald spot', (ozone hole) is down
to 15
million sq miles over
Antarctica as of Oct, 2002. Shrinkage,
Big
Time. One year's reading on
reduced cfcs doth not a trend make.
Is
this happy hour? Fewer recalcitrants
maced? Hair-gel instead of hair

spray? Asthmatic winds rake pebbles
in dry Arctic valleys.
Presidents
and dictators square off. Puritanism
v Tribalism.
Doomsday's a
syndicated affair. Life's Good.
*
I wanted to reach my hand into
the side of that mountain.
The
Romans waited, the Jews died.
Made a sacrificial altar,
such as
Abraham had to his God.
A small cave, pocketed at the
base of
Massada. Better death than
surrender - a courageous act
for living
against the odds. Day
by day danger renews, retribution
neither
diminishes nor goes
away. To every Age a new generation,
bigger
weapons to sound the void.
*
Your breasts in the mirror,
still life of gourds. Bossed shields.
The
white-washed room peeled,
flaked, wooden shutters opened
on the
small harbour quay -
a restaurateur tipped his garbage
casually into
the Mediterranean.
A night of fish bones, cigarette butts,
bobbed in
an oily slick. West,

into shadow, Ant’nošs anchored off
the
headland, outboard silenced,
dynamite exploding like an octopus

under a shoal of fish beneath.

*
Alcatraz not Minoan ruins.
Morning mist hangs its garden off

Golden Gate bridge. Men in
fog loom large. Fog or ram's horn?

Container ship - warrior barge,
passes under with another load of

Japanese cars to feast upon
freeways. 'Straight guys are at a

premium' you said. (Or so I
overheard). Seven months under
your
roof in your bed. I never got
to Texas - never hit Route 66.

Marooned on my Isle, deep within
that lustful, solitary confinement.
*
Do words bring to mind flat
sided buildings, cliff face, waterfall?

Each emotion to its respective
season and climate. Age means era,

epoch, each physical transformation
(our) body plays out. Journey

from foot to fossil print, the single
breath, misting to humidness.

Blood shadows a dense valley;
untidy buildings, an old saw-mill;

blood thins to Gods' ichor. I approach
you like a drive-in movie.
Memory's
what we miss, we spool reels of it.
*
Serpent-backed bridge profiled:
the city, chalk-toned, laid out like a

shooting gallery. From Green
Point (sub-net ghosting to Georges

Head) a V of gulls speedily hugging
the harbour; its surface serried,

grey disturbances. Wind grain. Yachts
coasting, canvas slap.
Manly ferries,
(green, beige upperwork) slide
between white,
salt-shaker buoys.
Trouble in Paradise? Never!
Spring thunder ain't