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Amrodel
Dead
i
cut the rock below the earth and fill my arm with dusted
paints
i fall into a fishie-stream and dream a dream of unsurpassing
glamour and enchantment.
i
fish my Wrists for life's emphatic bleat and
find beneath my Blood a whole and newer thing;
which, with its unbinding, seeks the sun and
lets its lips become the Eye
of Hour.
i
fell into a whistlie dark and daring cave and beyond the
dripping whisper
of its fangy
lid i seeped inside a crescent fishie-stream where soulless
crisp and white
and dreary eyeballs
peek a precious light inside myself
i
have an Eye, an Hour, two Wrists and just one drop of Blood.
i
could do no damage.
beyond
the swimming, beneath the fatal floating of a cold and wretched
corpse:
amrodel
dead
i
see the waterlog way she lay,
as if blanketed;
blank, afraid, shocking.
kill the wetness, kill the chill, kill the light.
i
could kiss you, murderer.
i
remember your basement.
plans of tut's untombing combed our tangled lochs.
old and stickie rosemeat lay about.
dread and death's unhiding shout.
dreams
of years and years,
dreams that go to golden fields where sun is like a lemon
dew upon the neck,
dreams below a well of vibrant sung and racing angels,
dreams below our feet could never warm our hearts.
dreams
of years and years, and years we never kept,
dreams of glowing with la lune,
and the splendour that she wept.
she
let the fishies brush her up
another choice was missing.
that
log was wept.
thus began Our Last And Dying Grasp,
which with a million horse's hearts,
we cast ourselves (young elves) upon
the stinking creek,
and each moon leak its great and brilliant
glance into trying, drowning eyes.
the
moon could drown us too, we knew,
and in our cold we sunk to lowest depth.
below
a certain point we touched our feet upon
a rock, and cut our arms around its heated current.
that
blood could--it would--swirl a certain way.
that blood would--it could--whirl until day.
a
way in which the rhythms of some deep and dying god
were summoned, and the wrath of his last words swept us
to
a light and peaceful eddy,
where we lay panting till some desert consumed us with a
dry and dusty fire.
in
this way we learned to breath a different air,
which let our minds know truer things;
in this way we learned to walk this path:
of the lotus in the rose.
Copyright
© 2001 Michael Workman
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Heartclock
if
the world were deathly still,
and your heart a spinning place,
what way would your blood whirl?--
by what would we set pace?
would
roses buy a lover?
would time buy a clock?
would moonthings cease to hover
around their earthen dock?
if
love were temporal,
and eternity a beast,
I'd live my love a tool--
useful at the least.
Copyright
© 2001 Michael Workman
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The
Peasant
i
saw a fire queen
drop from
that window.
i
felt that flame should be rising, rising,
and at winter's descent,
i hid so low
that anything was a throne
for her
snatch.
Copyright
© 2001 Michael Workman
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