My noise, or music
(I don’t know which is which)
But it tries to escape,
And is broadcast, nightly
Over flat roofs and chimneys
Along fog choked alleys,
Through city streets
Till caught in its own limit
It’s consumed, and strewn,
Over an iron bridge
Down to the river
To become another corpse.
————————————————————
It could be me,
Along with my dream,
Blown up in a river.
It could be me, face down
Listening to the city;
Trying to perceive
Through the noise
Of shuddering trains
And the bereft sirens,
Wailing for the lost.
It could be me
Trying to perceive
Underneath music
The underneath voice that says
'You have to drown to hear me,
You must be, baptised in silence'
————————————————————
I knew his father once (the Baptist’s)
And I believed in him
Like some comic-book hero,
I believed in his powers.
And now, in this city
I can only believe in ghosts
Ghosts found wandering
Among attendant chords
Carried at night
Across the city lights
Playing on a empty swing
Under afternoon sun
And in lingering mists of dawn
That pearl the ground.
I’ve felt that ghost
Near the wood at twilight
And in a foxes stare
And a strangers smile.
————————————————————
But feeling ain’t believing,
So Sunday mornings are spent
For better or worse,
In pursuits and hot-heeled chases,
Of spent thoughts and sorry dreams
That try to stem the tide
That try to forget the plea, to join the rats,
And to see the sea.
————————————————————
But, almost accidentally
I still always find music,
In a hush of wind, or in swirling leaves
As my head breaks through roaring waves.
Contemplation makes the music clearer
Revealing the divinity of expression.
Revealing the label-less ghost, with a comic-book name;
‘The Unseen Hand’ which plays
Throughout the night in days
And is heard when yearned for.
And it will not die, for it has never lived,
Apart from the mind.
May 6, 2017
May 6, 2017 at 5:18 PM UTC
My noise, or music
(I don’t know which is which)
But it tries to escape,
And is broadcast, nightly
Over flat roofs and chimneys
Along fog choked alleys,
Through city streets
Till caught in its own limit
It’s consumed, and strewn,
Over an iron bridge
Down to the river
To become another corpse.
————————————————————
It could be me,
Along with my dream,
Blown up in a river.
It could be me, face down
Listening to the city;
Trying to perceive
Through the noise
Of shuddering trains
And the bereft sirens,
Wailing for the lost.
It could be me
Trying to perceive
Underneath music
The underneath voice that says
'You have to drown to hear me,
You must be, baptised in silence'
————————————————————
I knew his father once (the Baptist’s)
And I believed in him
Like some comic-book hero,
I believed in his powers.
And now, in this city
I can only believe in ghosts
Ghosts found wandering
Among attendant chords
Carried at night
Across the city lights
Playing on a empty swing
Under afternoon sun
And in lingering mists of dawn
That pearl the ground.
I’ve felt that ghost
Near the wood at twilight
And in a foxes stare
And a strangers smile.
————————————————————
But feeling ain’t believing,
So Sunday mornings are spent
For better or worse,
In pursuits and hot-heeled chases,
Of spent thoughts and sorry dreams
That try to stem the tide
That try to forget the plea, to join the rats,
And to see the sea.
————————————————————
But, almost accidentally
I still always find music,
In a hush of wind, or in swirling leaves
As my head breaks through roaring waves.
Contemplation makes the music clearer
Revealing the divinity of expression.
Revealing the label-less ghost, with a comic-book name;
‘The Unseen Hand’ which plays
Throughout the night in days
And is heard when yearned for.
And it will not die, for it has never lived,
Apart from the mind.
