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Mockingbird
what could there be, worse,
than shaking off the black dog
on the sunniest of singing, birded,
mocking spring days
I looked for you to come out from behind the clouds again
your hair waving like jettisoned energy
into the dark, trailing spirals,
matter,
into the blind
void of life, imagination
potential
spring.
The sky burnt, the clouds hung,
the sun shot,
the sea moaned, the cliffs fell,
the sand shrank...
the rocks were dumb
I was not.
You ceased.
Even the air failed and died.
Evocation
Don Chihuahua said:
I am suffering from subjunctivitis.
I would be in your arms now.
You would look at me with eyes
impenetrable in the obsidian light
and whisper the location of the hidden magic of the world.
Your opaque beauty would shock me again.
I would be lost again, absorbed
by the down on your soft cheek,
the pale, flushed skin covering
the mystery I could not
nor would not
want to solve.
I would see a glimmer of movement
in your brow, and I would,
as always,
recognise my thoughts in your face.
A train is carrying me
through ghost towns
lit by dull lamps
barely concealing the hollowness.
The carriage bulges with hollow people
occupying space and time
but nothing more.
They are being occupied by hollowness.
I can even see
their transparency –
they leave the train
as ghosts leave bodies,
leaving a shell.
Flickering across their faces
are the traces
of empty thoughts,
consumed by the nothingnesses
of inboxes,
chattering politics,
dinner for three,
four,
five
hollow people
in a hollow family home.
An eyebrow,
mistily visible
against the outlines beyond,
twitches in the last spasms
of an inconsequence.
Forgotten trains of hollow thought
blink out of mind,
only to repeat themselves
glibly.
The scales fell from my eyes.
The beeches trailed behind me
as I stepped into the future
stretching before me,
utterly certain into infinity.
It is lined with hollow homes,
filled with hollow accoutrements
for transparent people
scurrying to and fro
like ants on a dead trunk,
pursuing vacancy with
blind ardour.
What are they feeding
with the empty seed-husks
of nothingness that they carry
on their shoulders
as though they bore the world?
The beeches trailed behind me,
their eyes impenetrable in the obsidian
transparency of blind ardour
bearing the world of hollow homes
and inboxes into my body, leaving a shell.
Download: Jose Luis Merlin - Evocation mp3
