Movement 2 - The Force That Flows Through Me
Up here my craned neck seeks solace where none can
My fingers tremble on the lip and my arse,
like god’s in wayward pre-existing skies,
bares to mankind a sphincter of expectation.
I can hear vertebrae and muscles creak
and feel their pain as I readjust, twist, undo
my glances, strains and wiles beneath that high
risen weltanschauung. Hear me.
Is this marbled floor and crowded space below
brimming with human thought and dream
where we must be, where we find some cause
and casket, whale and bream, shoal and shawl?
I like that face and silent presence. The gaze.
But in this same moment, movement overpowers
a yellow bittern secreting her vaulted story
in the naked architecture of creation’s way.
Here the earthenware jars break, or pour
nourishingly as limpid penis, fulsome testicle
and questing eyes of many noble ignudi
beam glandular worlds with every shoulder’s turn.
Who you are is not important. What is here
is who you are. Who I am too is not important.
What I am is here, aware, active – though difficult and
cowardly spiraling may cloud my shine, my sheer.
Your shine and sheer swan into the mists,
rescuing and losing in one gigantic laugh,
that echoes the peals hidden in your brush.
Chip that mix, mix that powder, paste, splash, cry.