by Ulric Cowley
You are viewing the Stars on your Lid
and just as the Night proceeds the Dawn
so does that light – entering
upon the rising of the veil
blinding at first, a ritual of acclimation,
your view becomes the fervent green
of life captured in the rapture of dew
held on that morning tree before you
its trunk, a cylinder of that
unrelenting strength of becoming
rising amongst the mulch – a fecund
bed of decay
its outline made distinct against
the many that stand before and beyond
the limbs and branches capturing the
morning light like a colander does water
its warmth blanketing your skin
Tree’s crown glorious in its menagerie
fit for the old Kings and Queens
who stood as sacrifice for the crops
this is what you see in the morning tree
beds of moss and colonies of mushrooms
expand like valleys and forests
over the roots too mighty to hide
under the comfort of the
perpetual night of soil
under the canopy of those who eat decay
marches a phalanx of ants
towards their holy sacrament
the body of a worm
dried from the force of heat
torn piece by piece with precision
the one become many on the backs of others
and carried into those tunnels
deep and mysterious – untouched
in their form by sight
this is the drama of the floor
a procession of being
disassimilated by the pincers of life
becoming
the one acting as many
and in the beak of the bird
with its tar colored head
and indigo body
life is tossed about
like clothes in the dryer
she stands over the nestled nest
babies naked of their natural clothing
crying a cacophant celebration
as the torn garments of flesh
land into their morbid mouths
A proliferation of bodies upon bodies
the all too familiar metaphor of the Wheel.
a light in the world so small and tender
keeps the soul warm when the days are cold
its red effervescence stretching out
across the savanna of the table
lifting up the round of your bottle
and you’re chasing the drink
afraid it’ll get away from you before
you can get rid of your thoughts
choosing the animal on the carousel
is always a difficult choice
their dead enamel eyes staring
directly into your consciousness
and the vaudevillian music
singing songs of eery mundanity
like decaying sears catalogues
and rusted spring boards
walking over cans and newspapers
as if they were clouds and you
were mounting the atmosphere
a king of the decadent wasteland.