Precincts 1-4

 Precinct

i.

…and always in evening twilight

my choice to complete and fall again

from the light that never came, a song

loud on the lung, damped down

by corresponding silence 

has me standing in cold, thin rain

where the question of giant time arrives.

Deep in the heart of its meaning

that night comes, long rest

outside the precinct

of a jealous love that captures,

noting down an index of credit,

something like that, see, I never knew him

or if he isn’t there, I did, too well.

Precinct

ii.

If this is where you are

burning out, should you not

burn harder, spectacular destruction

twilight is torrential, but the rain

is slow like this staggered quiet

stumble onto the crossing. 

Long rest. No testament. 

Fear leaves besieged bodies,

hungry. The map of the world

is this soaking pavement

slick of petrol.

Precinct

iii. 

…for I have a great hope of glory

we would sing, but that great hope

we hid in our silent meetings, peaceful,

abstract and heading for dusk. 

Our people hide ourselves, moving

without torches penned in

to specific types of work

your joy in destructive light. 

One last try: The pavement outside is all

I can look at, seems to spread itself all over

the world. Time’s running out. Wanted

to be held, our pretty hair and ribbons,

summer ribbons.

Precinct

iv. 

That felt okay. Now move along. 

What’s the stretching sound

or impossible feeling

hairs standing up

you’re not alone

arrived here

night after night. 

Precinct

There’s a carpark nearby to where

I was sleeping. Seems right. There’s a change

in the air, cold and compelling. I refused

the clocks, began to unravel the seasons

so barefaced and cruel, in this warm world. 

I can’t think. Daylight spills in and dreams

spread out over the sky, scattered to air.

Spit on the pillow. Counting the windows

at the hospital, over her shoulder as she cried

bitterly, strobing, indelicate and pure. 

Casting a numb tattoo on her knuckles

with the tips of her fingers, fire persisting

east to west they stood still. Quiet now, 

I hear the vehicle coming along. What is it

here the same time each early morning

terrifies and charges the night, so that

to imagine the whole precinct coming out

and closing into the hills, and for a moment 

I knew what it was to taste a mighty 

and wonderful sensation, 

and to touch the highest pinnacle of joy I 

have ever known. It lasted for less than a second, 

and was gone;

VIII

Fat green mist. Day falls. Mute overhead. An coded end. Play of fields. Elect eyes. Impressioned. Have waist given to fear. Of prism. By light known. Fallen summer. Devil harp pretend noise. Made to prayer. Stutters still. Will not form lines in this quiet and heavy. How, of dawn. Was made. Was promised. Refused. Was spent. Was stilled. Was silent. Hurt. It end. Away goes. Of that who are you fell. Was stupid. Quiet now. Dangle the scissor. Eerie. Snubbed. For motions there. None came. Oh settle. Please list them. The floors? And only floors. A list of only floors: And if the flies do breathe. And if the legs, theirs, curl. Curl and burn. Spluttering fats of insect. But I am too unhollow. And I am also far too breathed. Goes into the basque. Our chewing deaths. What their feelings are. Renew. Dissuade the heat death of the kitchen. This mouldy it lived here in the long quiet nights spread out in the name of morning. It is why the prison sits. The case for refining tongues. Her mortician. Her faucet. Was knack. Buckled the wheels. And so, as you say, it hurts. Compels the monitors. Checks the drawer. The skinny toes too at the reframing word. I engaged the park with barking. Peeled my face down the legs. Took the toe in the hands. I have a head. But the arm the hand the foot the thumb the back. Far beyond possession. And there. Its speech on tabloid skins. Never fail in settlements. There is this thing of weakness. Who are the population. The course is rags to a sky. We are finically disproved. But, hello. For I have a head. I extrude emblems. My terror potential is powerlessness. A gaudy apple. She sees to shed the wound rope. It is a list of forty lives in there, horrid with moth skins.

VII

 Her head is wrapped in paper. Eager light of play deface nebulous… Ping open. Snap. Inland of gentlest gantry.

VI

 He is cruel. He has shut away my pigs. Locked and scorned my office. Refused my games. Ah, he hates so uniformly. It is a repeater tongue jabs out into unfamiliar airs. My piggies bark and beg of his mercies. I know them. They are kind and deep. Carry a million names. But he finds germs at the front of the shelf. And if he’ll never cease to fear, my pigs remain so: Locked, and all at his mercies.

V

 I ask you must not die. The time is far and there are sirens to be made. Your neck held on to my arm. Ask for the habits of your body. Let them stutter their names: Their temporary, fragile routines. Might not I kiss and I bite at the breath it is indistinct and moves, how shrill and strangely, ah, ah, static.

IV

Who dreamed for us this sky, ah dear departed, schemes, ah

the sleep stole me, the silent doors. Under cover of a life the ah,

hitched away. Distrust does enter hearts. The impossible smell of the 

ah, frozen morning. Air, air for you my love and air and air.