like a gouache by David Jones

LITTLE GROTTO

Day like a gouache by David Jones.

Diaphanous vision, muted

by sea-wind, raincloud.

Mountain, meadow, rust (earth tones).

The nightmare of the Great War

like sulphur tuning fork

or buried line in Eden Park

commingles its dilemma in a metaphor

like rose in steel dust (Roger’s compass,

pointing NNW).

& Image of the Beast is

emblem for the matrix of that enterprise

encrypted at the center of a corn maze

where Satan & his Minotaur

(ICE-bound, possessed) are

snared (handcuffed in their own cold glaze).

The Man of Lawlessness, like Terrible

Ivan – he makes his own desire

the absolute measure;

he’s lost to caritas (in his own bubble).

Imagine Ghiberti’s golden doors

at the Baptistery in Florence

with angels forced to dance

to the lash of demonic matadors…

imagine Eugenio, alongside Clizia

locked in the library

with Mussolini – her sturdy

sun-glance, over the chessboard… ah,

*

bright wings!  When Everyman & Woman

breathe in the heartland

of their living temple… &

Joachim’s eagle plummets through the Plan

of Ages!  Providential restoration, O

downglide of Holy Ghost!

Multitudinous host

of human happiness – blue emerald glow

of soft & silent cat’s-eye revolutions,

roll!  & be the planetary

hearthland, wide prairie…

deep swell of Thunderbird flute sessions!

Because all the world’s a stage, coach;

the play’s the salty verse

for catching Eddy the Perverse,

who suckles his Corona like a roach

out of the Minotaur’s bleak heart –

rotten as… who can say?

God knows.  Only way

’s to pinwheel back where we start,

Pocahontas – up to the swirling

origin of springs.

A little grotto brings

its whisper of clear water.  Everything

draws near.  Pleroma for Fisher King

(little lad in oak tree)

shines, golden, leafy.  His

mother smiles… rainbows from nothing.

3.28.20

medieval eaglet

CZECH MATE

So Janus comes, two-faced & torn

like split Siamese

Dioscuri – full of unease.

The sun (low orange after-burn

flailing to keep from sinking down).

Not President, not King,

but some other Something

wobbling like egg inside a crown –

Huffer-EZ Beast, out o’th’slime.

Trumpeting his name

in blocks of guilty flame,

a mountaineer of lofty crime.

Apocalypse Now was a bad movie.

Calypso (soeur of Circe)

kep’ sous in her purse

for just such a very groovy

way of passing the Gol’mighty Buck

to Time.  MAMMON FOR SALE.

Everybody turn pale,

turn tail... rabbit-tracks in the muck.

                     *

Don’t try t’cross the radiant Kremlin.

Its flush rust-orange flare

steal into every corner

of the dacha, like kitchen gremlin

or turquoise exhaust.  They know your name.

They don’t like your move.

The knight’s in a groove

off L-shaped Room – Lucky Vadim

or Gimpy Natasha (pseudonym

for Czech Mate, starring

Leslie Caron). Bring

him in for questioning.  Da.  Hyim.

True jealousy is Kremlin green.

Not copper, like that lady

bugged with epilepsy,

aboriginal Macadamia (aquamarine)...

                    *

The fire in heaven – constellation

of a million little candles –

leaves no left handles

on the lofty candelabra.  Station

by station, ring by rung, the bell

drones Baselitz (b-flat)

inverting chasmic fiat –

Everywombat’s hurtling medieval

eaglet dissemination

(Fiore Scandal – Foundling

Raptor for Swaddling –

Closed) perplexes simian

foundations.  Eye sore to grub.

A peacock circumference

fans incoherence,

welds magnitudes into one cherub –

angel, messiah... ghost dance

figure for yearning.

Navvy Jonah musta fling

her sweet life-saver (mickle glance).

1.7.17