136

Have you got a Brook in your little heart,
Where bashful flowers blow,
And blushing birds go down to drink,
And shadows tremble so—

And nobody knows, so still it flows,
That any brook is there,
And yet your little draught of life
Is daily drunken there—

Why, look out for the little brook in March,
When the rivers overflow,
And the snows come hurrying from the fills,
And the bridges often go—

And later, in August it may be—
When the meadows parching lie,
Beware, lest this little brook of life,
Some burning noon go dry!

When the transcendental died, Cézanne howled to the moon;
But Cézanne, he knew the truth:
He saw, in his eyes, that life could not die—
In his early work he displayed this truth.
But, he was corrupted by Camille Pissaro,
And his palette was lightened to boot.
Yet there still remained, on his most turbulent days,
Everlasting darkness that strained,
Winding its blackening roots.

In the earth we stained the caves,
Leaving, scrawled upon the walls,
An abstract map of our brains.

The walls became the conduit for our pain,
And through artistic semblance
We would separate Pangaea and live again.

The colours in the walls themselves resemble pain,
And the strain of seeing within the geological grain
Is more than Human can sustain.

Within his own image my brother searched for the Sun, but he could not stare directly into its rays and instead headed into the desert in search of water.

During the night the desert sat still and shimmered like the fourth hour of life after birth, enfolding and unfolding in an eternal ripple induced by the juice of the cacti tree. The days took there toll on his mind as he drank the juice of the cacti tree and chanted the song of Sun-Lam in order to ward away the lost spirits of the desert, those who saw the Sun's rays but did not believe we created God in the Sun's image. The Sun became a mirror of the dunes and many trees sprouted in the distance before my brother's eyes, situated at a mesmeric oasis— a blessing for his faith and resilience.

"Do not cross my path, for I am a tree that grows without water!" Thus spoke an etheric voice tangled in the mystery of the sand dunes. My brother stopped upon hearing the voice and fell to his knees, and then onto his stomach. Finally, he rolled onto his back, burnt by the Sun, but crowned, so to speak, by a crescent Moon.

Many months later I found him dead before the sacred tree that had spoken to him, finally at peace. His ******* were rock hard due to the dry heat and I did not bury him as the sacred tree forbade it. Instead I was ushered towards the oasis, for I had not chanted the song of Sun-Lam during my journey and therefore I was not permitted to give my brother a proper burial.

At the oasis I danced and ate such delightful fruit on the banks of the fresh springs, and although my brother had died, and had never found the water that would connect him to God— the true God who dances within the eyes of those who stare into the Sun— at night I could see him smiling down upon me from the stars, so happy was he to see me upon the water's edge.

Blotted starlight from sunken Heaven
Aligns separate suns with black-hole-being
Under simmering fires of flickering, flickering,
Fading into condensation breath.

Shimmering oblivion forms, dancing in sunlight—
Ripple thickens the lip of the sand.
Structural emblem searing the desert—
Music-slip, cockhantuu.
Gape-sunrise scolding, turney—
Allow my feet walk ‘pon sun-furnace sand!
Emerald Green, reside in distance.
Behold! The gift of grassland?
Gapefold, turney. Contstad, noble—
Sweet milk oozes from the scorpion's gland!
Oasis of milk— of mother-cry milk!
Breastmilk of this sun-scorched strand.

I wander thro’ each charter’d street.
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow
A mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man.
In every Infants cry of fear.
In every voice; in every ban.
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear

How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackening Church appalls.
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls

But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse