Spiritual Exercises / The Moth of Return
Lost cities function as decision.
A kerosene lamp fades.
Detach the shingle and enter via roller door to Sculpture By Appointment
as you become the city’s concreted fountains,
the crest’s gules, the arcade’s message,
tarred peripherals bleached with gallowed sun.
World’s greatest quibbler, carving a match,
carries the Twelve Conclusions of the Lollards to a ti-tree
in the hoodwinking and aftermath’s spool of forget-me-not memes.
Refutations lined up like the burning saints.
Now chefs and murderers are pocket neon
as lights bludge on February’s chopstick waves and creepy perennials
along the merch of time. Wrap your swag in road’s missal ribbon.
Birds poised on an electric grid.
Nostalgia’s contraindications are proof of existence
blowing a dragnet through space,
unlatched from a machine’s lullaby dictionary.
Why go anywhere? machines yell at you all day,
each membrane open to comment
under the fried clouds,
says Assiduous of the Airwaves.
The questioners drip for anointment
as conviction politicians baa and clump
for a screen’s forgetting tablet or central heating.
Leave for a chariot of skulls instead,
the cod-Latin of a forthwith heart,
over the artesian lake preparing a skyline
that you build too, separately.
The Moth of Return
You’re a perfect stranger,
snow dislodges the nature-strip,
your neighbours in Spring would be weeding
a proscenium of geraniums.
Not occlusively the black sheep, that honour
would fall on the frightful thrice-removed.
St Roch tends to the lepers.
More cymbals would jazz it up,
even his stadium masculinity
like Noddy or Pookie, clichéd and touching infinitely.
Another shout and you’re a diary, deliquescing
in an imitation Empire chair near a relay of promises
as the car backs out,
running over a hedge.