Sunday, 2 March 2014
56. Question: Who Is the Antitypical Amorite?
We are they – no other but us
The ugliest dispensation is rioting fantasies
Burning within a decrepit landscape. Power
That is this world’s origins as its wound.
Rawness will remain when the dream is done.
That and origin’s jewelled head. Our ritual.
All accusatory appraisal a stare at our heart.
Uneasily its business inside us a knotted wound.
We are poets, we are people, we act especially drunk
Within excess, collective actuality not utopian now.
Decrepit sky, casual language, all just memory anywhere.
At the chapel then things opened a luminous wound
Inside our meat. Imbibe it like a pie. The poets
Could be a major utopian fantasy – their sober stare
Engaged inside our dreams. How really could we rename this?
In these decrepit times what we are jewelled wounds
Writing our language as a scary mask.
We have no other anywhere. This dispensation’s strict acceptance
Will remain. It’s difficult but it is collective. The sunWill remain. Memory will remain, especially when a wound.