Sunday, 9 June 2013

RING OF THE HOURS


1- The oldman in coat-tails
is beyond the reach
Of purring sundowns;
he, in the tropical cemetery,
Is contained in convulsing circuits
of decaying reality.


So many giggling hyenas gnaw out his brain
while he lies on his spine
And imagines the celadon wastes
stretching their deeps
To a placental journey's conclusion.



2- This fervent youth throws bricks
at a hairless statue
Which falls classically, cracks empty.

The temple door shuts and opens
to close again.
In this far emptiness, the defeated genuflect,
the altar, the volant sword,
Is lost in delusion.


Here, the living heroes are bestowed with pain,
they howl repetitively over loudspeakers
Amplifying their condition.


Receiving signals from Aldebaran,
a twittering blanker than riveted stars,
The defeated shoot their sperm,
Jerking off across the vacuum in vain.



3- The young hero is an old man returning to stone,
with muffled steps in retroaction,
He carries the weight of his seed,
his body is always heavy.




RW, first draft, 1967, latest draft, 15.XII.92.

Copyright, Rory Winter 2013

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