79. Written After Witnessing Two Unicorns Beaten to Destruction in a Churchyard near Us

For David Houssart

Weddings are strange – True

The pretty pink poets start in

And adjust. Time the muumuus

OK. We are exposed here suddenly

Improvisation is in – Again

Cancer glamour like light

Shoves us up to adjust the muumuus

This voyage can be the marker

Remember reality is right – Only

Offa can prick this to us

Somehow we start to adjust. Muumuus

True to tell are the train this time

In gravy we hear hope – Wake up!

Sour fluid is the only material all right

No reality to adjust – Muumuus here again

And this strange glamour that sheathed us

The city can wake up clear – Hey!

We are suddenly pretty again like somehow

Pink milk and muumuus. Adjust all, you gravy

This time the pus was right

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 sun

Will remain. Memory will remain, especially when a wound.