a speed-written poem by Jim Bellamy

(Influenced by Dylan Thomas'  'Author's Prologue')
this grave's grinding know-how,
in torrent and saline slide
on the grooves of a hooveward glide
in crime's rolled and racketing mind,
on a raging spire of rock
angled with the angelled clock,
aloft, sired, spinned and rilled
as a river on the loot,
by drummed and skippering sand
with a riveting sky in hoot
in each hull and helm of man,
flows gladly; sure in hymen
and cackled with time's keel,
whose showboats lam and peal,
ganged and leavened in their joys
that, stabbing, knell a bell
that chimes from the wrecks of a well,
eternal in their glaze
whose angled cities climb
and floam the flowers that hatch
in an arced religious grind
of helmethood and war,
awed peace singing and the wards
of stranger and manger thronged
like a burning and manic song,
the pyres of words in a spin
and the world of fires as finned
as mary and her burning ground,
out of which the sea gunned eaves
that star along the pall,
like treasons in the reeds
that boom in the clinkers of a seaweed,
gyre into the key drummed light.
siren and seedhorse siring, and the ships
of coast and ovum, lyring like a pew,
pollenised in the waters of the black
and rumpled briars of shade and shape,
for poetry alone, crime flows and breaks
like molten mania in the hand,
glory alive and the serried trees
roaring in the bud that is best
and buried in the cables of the west,
herod angels warring, and the rooks
of fish on fin flaring in the dark,
where, god knows, the ark of crooks
thrills to the floods of spring,
outelling, heltering, surgering ahead
as if possessed by the lordalive,
rapine and rumbling in its streams
with a wound and croft devise.
Ho! there, in muscled skies,
where blood scars float and beam,
the flickering gates of eyes
run the demons out of bed!
Lo! on a scrummed wing,
now how the demons brook
and marry to the mandril dark
with angelus and book,
coastering their flyward quest
through blue note and nest
down to the rainbow's man,
who is yet ape, who is slow as late,
as he sleeps, as he dictates;
hey there, on a sly hill, black
is the whistle of abaddon's hue!
here now, drear now, crime's red ship
bangs in the fangs as she bites,
(a clash of cymbals tolls the greed,
a son of mutiny, the need
of the angelled mall),
yet animula shall not cede
a halo to the hymen's ground,
(all hale the son gone young in the wind!),
time who weeps is good and thin,
mad and sure at heart! the strong
huloos of the stars are wrong
enough for the strangled shore,
and the charms of the templers are in awe!
ah, soul of favours, with your spined
drill of ash and quill, what a match
you might offer this moonshine
and the rippling spies of the grey:
with hilted nail and cell,
though the mounds in hell
are yet alive with decoys,
through the turning of your spiels
and the mongers in the fields,
yours is a paradise of dens!
under the stars and their hands,
under the multisonous larch, mute
as the pink of the land,
samphired and sporraned in lud suit,
like water we came: from hill to hill,
our sea-shorn nineveh broke like rocks
and, ahoy!, the chain-legged locks
shot along and sired us, fast as rhyme,
into the singing of the holy lie,
which, entired in the store of a cry,
floods in the galleys of a grave right now.
Copyright JDB 1999.
i write like this all of the time!