These poems are dedicted to the utmost genius of the late great poet-author-playwright -broadcaster Dylan Marlais Thomas

(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)

 ..foreword...

Here there is just a handful of JD Bellamy's poems written in response to or else inspired by the world famous and genius prosody of Dylan Marlais Thomas.
JD has written many hundreds of verses relating to all of Thomas's published poems. JD Bellamy is a qualified and award-winning poet.
He resides in South London and adores all ingenious writings. He has written many thousands of poems. JDB was born in a storm in early December 1972. All of JDB's poems are speed-written.

                                                          Lots of these poems are jim bellamy's own original word-creations.

 

 

 The poems:-

 

 

BEACH EXPORT

"A bud on a kestrel pier played hound
to leash me, tar and feather,
for what cob-webs my bone's shorn grip
could gullet in the revel of beaching brunts,
once the final stroke had wombled pre-ices
and the carking feral fillings had receded down to none

So then I was held by lurks; that reckoning's
pellicles, gridden with pampus blubbers,
quit medecasting touch, thru damp'ning essentials
in relays of gravelling, sparkish ground,
light's meaning bathers, buoyless in their seconding,
devouring isobarity, with idleness in helm.

Wrecked collections, politic, suffered sandy, and the soul
lay snug in foundry soda, as arterioles went stratum,
and girls, substantialled effluent, winching wind-shields to shame,
embroiled bosoms in beach-bawls, behind dyed hairs in frame.

A bud on a kestrel pier played hound to leash me, tar and feather,
for what dipsomanium could offer the larkish ways of dream."

..

jdb 1992.

..

NOW LAUD TIME'S FATHERS

now laud time's fathers that rhyme may be milled,
whose coronet of apples conspires against the tongue
and, pinpoint in the fruit, curates along its anvilled
angel in the miracle of cobweb knife and drum;
come laud, come sate the centaur in the nectar
that, saturated, the cell of light might chime
sweetly, where the guild of sylvan, mason mentors
lams along the lilies of the mind.

Now laud time's fathers: in the cherry, let love's folly
serry and co-mettle to the kiss of fairy sons;
come let the nettle hurdle and the wicked needle's curdle
bludgeon low as low: in the pedals of the cum,
come seize the poet's medal and stoke the frames of detol -
that the skies may size, come prick the bawls of death
and, pinpoint in the fruit of graven gut and trestle,
set mortars to the infants in the daughters of the breath.

Come laud time's fathers: come sex the ivored rafters,
for rhyme has been devilled by the windmills in a stave,
and, concussed by petals, cannot encroach its metals,
nor the knickers in a tangle, nor the wombstones in a blade.

If God is not blood, then his riddle must come sailing
and Samson and Delilah strike a pornosapphic pose
and hammer into wrangle must sear its jacobed angle
and times, as mad as weeping, expose the menstrual lobes

ahhhh

*

HARVEST HOLY (A GLORIA)

i

holy world,
from whence the appled fleece
went mapling up through the bells
and ruminatively on,
whence the sirens in their babels
flashed and flocked about
the searing keels of jonah's woman,
skeltering in their keeps
here the angels rumage
and clasp to scarlet naves
and gapple gaily in the docks
and arbours of the towns,
with peace, spumed and spanned, harebelled as it chimes,
where the bleating lambwhites
shrill and scarve about
into the sloe-staved night. Ah!
what a heaven is here concoved,
where thatching eggs revel and their hounds
lie down amid their whimperings
for a glad and maidened time,
as eden, gliding, spins segaciously on.
herein is the harvest that makes the lady shine.

ii

Past all procession,
the cedared trumpets flare:
where the hineyed limpets whisper,
there flow the hives of air,
and now, whereby the hermit crab respires,
in with their ingles,
the ample breast of evening
hailters and grails into the blooms
of regalled reevings,
where master and mistress resound
as one,
and the veils of breathing spire
duskily into the wombs of light. Ahh
how the hedons yolk and pare
and the valleys in their trances
cup the breasts that ride
and the galleys in their dances
snip the reed and rise
daintily
into the pews of undersound,
whereby the herald angels sing
and volley from the wing to a gold surmise.

iii

There, where the prayers
stand wryly in their books
and the musing, angled mares
stand ankled in their smocks:
here, where the spheres
spin quietly in their fears
and the chandaliers of night
sire brightly in the rocks:
now goes the padre and his word of fusing fire,
the canyon and the curate in the mission-fabled pyre,
the caul and thral of fusion
and the wisps and walls of congering shires,
the dales and vales of israel
and the candouring, communicadoed wires.
O, that this world may summon and permit
the haloes of virgins
to summon as they flit,
may now the winnowers who are the holy simmerers
and the curl and curve inspired
gambol and begrace the ferns that strut in space
and shut the starry spheres against the holy mind.

iv
Come rocking on the seashores
and rumbling where the bees roar,
fatal and prenatal, where the whirling chalice flairs,
now, from skies beratal, fluming thrum the pedals,
whereof the vans of starlight fan the blasting air,
and mettled stallions gun
upon their hooving run
and whistle glibly through the trees. Ahh
what a world: such a world that inspires
the rockets and the pearls
of the muses on the wires,
that are, subcaval, as volleyed as the natural
palace in the barracks as they gyre.
Yes! what a world, appled in its furls
and sensual as the plash-divining clays:
this whorl of god now swings, from jonquils on the wing
and the sun that is one, once only in the spring.
For these and these alone, the angels move the stone
and cauterise the wounds of the lowly,
and the word that is fire sits sparkish in the mire
and the heaven on a harpstring
turns the harvest holy.

*******************************
A SAINT SAT ON A WALL
(Vaguely influenced by, A Saint About to Fall)

A saint sat on a wall,
a communal, miserly mister,
spread where the eyes lie
recusant in the aether:
from the altars and the stalls
to the sermons in a whisper,
a saint sat on a wall
is a world unto its sister,
in the chapel, where light splits
and coasters down the caul
that wets the babied heads
in their all-devising thral:
whether lord or angel,
the psalm is just the same:
a saint sat on the wall
is the name of jesu's game.

A saint sat on a wall,
a word conspired and shed:
when music stands up small,
the saint is all that's bled;
and the haloes in their logic,
whose heroed stationary is all,
lies nationed in the ethic
of the pastors as they crawl.

though saints shall be terrific,
the gloria is dread:
the saint in sainted panic
is the pall beneath the bed,
where manna mauls from heaven
and snaps the wafer down
and wending wines in leaven
lie bloated in christ's crown.
A saint sat on the wall,
a lad whose ways are fused:
in thurible and mall,
the preaching way's accused,
and saints whose fables ride
the four ways for their debts
can only be devised
by the funerealing decks.

the haplessness is true;
saint in saintless parish is
the idol with no clues
and the steeple on the fizz:
though matter is aflame,
the blasphemy's god's bride.
where saints must go insane,
the saint who falls survives.

***********************
CHRIST-MILL

Christ-mill, turmoilous fen of friendless, dreamless ruin;
in coiled pictures of babel,
a rent limb, turned seraphic about the pall,
as peter's bended flame, the shouter in the crucifix
comes sundering at the stretcher of the fall.

Kosher lord, limb hocum bard, in negative, natal sand;
thrumming like a clock,
the pinpoint cradle's death denudes its furling,
as paul's detesting flame, a router on a precipice,
spielling light aside to naves of westward dreaming.

False christ, jack of gents christ; dogtoothed star of bethlem;
treadmill, rent apart by madness,
a rock plume, riddled with the modern lobes of fame;
bitch-heat, a dog among the moonsheets; cursed lover, germaine gain,
turning as it spurns, a latterday lover; hearsed, foiled, maimed.

..

jdb 1992

..

****************************************
****************************************
INCHOATE ANGEL

(Influenced by, Incarnate Devil in a Talking Snake)

Inchoate angel in the forests and the lakes,
the holy sperm of Israel in the muscling trees,
in the chapeline grind that Sirius dictates,
in shades of fallen Gabriel, the proctorates conceived,
and Jesus fallowed, where his architechts lay narrowed,
playing down christ's rising on a brolly-driven sea.

When the word was one and its harpstrings pusselled,
a maiden for a moon, the earth rooked in its shroud,
with the wise ones feloned and their talismen faloned;
and when god made Jesus, he made the devil proud,
and when the stone moved and the tomb of atoms grooved,
black as an olive, christ's fiddlers raved and roused.

Time in its ovum knew the swirls of diva:
in chiselries of Adam, the frosts that forged bewrayed;
and in the feinted paintings of eastertime, love's vicars,
as a hellfire turning dreftward, razed down fhe eyes of praise -
all heaven was burning when the lord of lourdes was summoned;
the humours were polaris on that fazed and guarded day.

*********************************************
***********************
BLIND AS THE BALL OF BREATH

Blind as the ball of breath, this demon summer,
daughtered as the sticks of war, contends love's proof;
the airless lore of lordless, breathless rhythm
as real and rent within as light uncouth.

Blind as the ball of breath, this demon season,
daughtered as the sticks of loving, shends all love away;
the heirless maw of lordless, breathless rhythm
as real and rent within as lightning's fray.
This is the cause of christ set in the splinter;
the gog and rod of jesus, darkened down;
the airless law, this sickled State of Ruin
as real and rent within as hero's crown.

Blind as the ball of breath, this demon woman,
daughtered as the slicks of reason, shends the town;
the heirs of air, as coved in crippled sueing
as men whose ways of laughing make no sound.

This is the clause of christ set in the sphincter;
the rug and drug of jesus, spurned around;
the prayerless score, this sickled state of coming
as real and rent within as hero's hound.

Blind as the ball of breathing, time must summon
ash and wax from foes who ravel west;
the truths behind the masques of herod's sermon
as trendless as the raker of the breast

ahhh.

**********************************
*********************************
SUCK THE STONE

suck the stone; see time summon death...
warped in the phasing hour, life can only
succour sickness closer than the breath;
and when this world comes to demand
demesnes of dreams from raptorial women,
each way of being shall come to none,
as real and red as mankind's sermon.

***********************************
************************************

THE SICKNESS OF THE WINTER

the neon whisper of the sun in the serried wind,
cruel as the coded curse of each medean child,
must, as much as light shall pierce the lobes of god,
rock the rapine rhythms of the serial killing wild.

time, spacing under, reaping words of fusion,
coiled in the searing rain, rackets like the lungs,
as man, as cold as gold, bursting into empire,
sourced in the narrow mind, rots the spirit's swerve.

christ cannot return, for christ is succoured under
each whisp of raving prayer, each whirl of winded sun;
so too, this knuckling reason, rocketted to zero,
remains as world reproof to disestablished love.

*****************
*************

IN MY HEAD?

and so the light falls
like a cracker cracked in half. even
beneath the pen, the breathing hogs
each moon of sadness made. I
have broken down the walls; acquiesced
into the lottery of shambled figures.
even I can't taste the night.
Leaves rustle in my head.
Across my bed, nudity glitters.
Upon my shoulder, I say my thoughts
uncensored by any dream and
cross into oblivion. why
should emptiness ache like this?

Much
is ever said through tendrils: eyes
floss the mouth and preach their ends. For
moments mourned in dignified violence, man
mounts his woman and cries. which
face to laud is maddening: here
opal spools crack spoons and smaltz
every which way with falconry. I should like a friend,

but nobody's at home. last
comes the tainted serum, the
delusory medic, the elixired dread. last
comes the ward; the corral
of so many wired intents. shy
as the first thirst of spring, though,
here the agents watch the night;
slam, cram and scrape
for each of us, unborn
in the shadowries of corpuscles,
maidened as the vows of waging night. Why!

this is the place where the steeples died?

***********************************

 

ERSEWARD AND AFTER (A POET'S VOYAGE) by jim bellamy
(after dylan thomas's 'Altarwise by Owl-light')
.

i
Erseward and after, in the naveward blaze,
The Nineveh of fables flapped its shrunken eye;
Eden, wrapped in stammers, scored away its garden,
And, from down the hills, the linnet swam the high
Four ways of the mare, sat in its golden meadow,
With the metronomes appealing and the clifftops bare,
Flaring and rainy, where the appled widow,
Who is the honey spider, whose mastery is rare,
Fellowed her heroes and the driver of the fairies,
Whereby the nails of Nero slashed away the hair
And, ghasting, galoshed on a ruminative trumpet
That, transcending, beheld an angelled fin,
Capricorn and Cancer revolving in their antics,
Snide-shorn and pullied in the Zodiacal Ind.

 

ii
Crime is time's saviour, the unit and the unicorn;
The womb that pares the bud lies sailored in the tears,
Knitted and steepled, where the humours of the lily
Ride and rise aside into the spinney of the years;
Child of childs and actor to the eyries in the emerald,
Adam and Abaddon drive the series in the flower;
Fuses flow from mammon,- red macadamed and summoned,
Hero and Leander course down the ivory tower.
Hair on head and after, funeral or master,
Doctor to doctor, the chitters in the hour
Fly the banded cricket from mantis man to wicket.
Hemlock-hived and hymened, duteous come the owls,
With Boudica and Judas hanging from a crocus
and Romeo conniving in Hamlet's cowl.

 

iii
First there was the theorist, rippling with Homer.
First came the purdah of thought and ideal.
First came the comber of the prayers that murder.
First came the bardic world of weals.
Now comes the horned and skull-chimed apprentice,
whittling the bull-bone as the cherry breaks,
Winded world appeasing, and the hornets in their gildings
Gashing and abashing into a cape of capes.
First came the theorist, rippling with homer.
First came the herald of the quietus in the mind.
Now comes the stolid and banished ram of reason,
And the winter in a sonnet that writes against the time.
First was the logic of sacrament and rocket;
Now the wolves of summer wreak away the spine.

 

iv
What is the tumour in the shadow storming river;
The sidler in a sigh; the son of eagled gender;
Whose rough fearing shall the hills surrender
To the timbre in the valleys of a wheat-shut eye?
(Wraith of phallic age, the astronauts dissemble:
Bubbling in their hate, the mortar men blow out).
What is the member in a supranatural whimper;
What the angel, what the wrangler, what the changing lout?
(Wraith of phallic age, the astronauts dissemble:
Music loses vision and the coiled stars dry).
What mad mammal love is the needle in a candle;
Which maternal measure hales the phaser in the sky?
(Wraith of phallic age, the astronauts dissemble:
Bibling in their wrath, the mortar men throe by).

 

v
Mammary of ashes on a scythe-scorned razor,
He who raped his mumma has a zen-skeined thigh:
Spurned by molten manna, the wick of whorlds in hammer
Anvils at the sun and rakes away the eagle's pry:
Out of crocks of nowhere, from the tides of crow-hair,
Mystic thrum the fillies and the aimless damsoned shies:
That mallow come the sparrows, marrow must grow fallow
And chaffinch with the mimics of a warbling spy:
Mary, virgin eyrie, must be scorned in theory
That the fields of adam may smelt the semblers down:
Hags that bless the lady must be burnt from maybe
And the cryptics under ridgewood scorn away the town,
Oven-head colliding and the trills of women bridling
Banished in the pumpkins of their all-too-zealous crown.

 

vi
Now sing hosanna for the fairies and their lammers,-
Let the bauble breeder be sirened down to sound,-
Past all riftward fate, set the shearer on the plate
And the head beneath the rosebud underground,-
Sing! now let the rod of Nineveh vibrate
And the hellcats in their sulphur, socketted round,
Run the rousting death of Helen anti-cherried;
Come set the thrillers free that the metronomic sea
Can tarnish; now sear that the ravine may not flower!
Doom inside the skull is the slit of timeless murder;
For rune and moon aside, god's heroes run aground;
Blown out of skull, god's caverns come to master;
Man and man aligned must fry to spare the town;
Doom in the skull is time's maficient martyr.

 

vii
Crime is the wending demesne in the garden,
The weaning whoop and the nature of the trees:
Crime runs blindly, crime is certain failure,
crime holds the gallows and crime bedims the seas:
Bent like the willow, hurdy-gurdy minnows,
Plashed in the transept, sweep the sirens round:
Crime runs madly, crime unlicks the lady,
Crime roams Eden into a hovelled ground:
Bent on coming into a world of nothing,
Bent and bent again on running evil's sound,
Crime is the traitor, the wrangle and the satyr,
The sallow rage and rave of the ebbing lounge
That rocks the rotten crucifix demented:
Crime is the Herod in the tiers of time unbound.

 

viii
From the high hills to the crescent in the window,
From the oracular to the whittled verb of days,
Out of a centaur came the horseman's pedal
That rode; out of summer there came a stave!
And time lay roofed in nettled groves of metal,
High and slandered by, on a kettled rose of graves,
Rhythm all-appeasing and the active word of searing
Shining down the hilltops and into heaven's laves.
Clockhands spoke to manna, were rented of their stammer
And turvied round the handsomes of the haloed law;
Nineveh decreasing and the musics in a ceiling
Gliding out of sight into a revelled raze of ore;
Time dying and water flailing from its daughter
And signing on the line for crime and all its yore.

ix
Let the graveward tailor lie naveward with his furies:
Chapeline and maidened, may the bastard sailor split:
Chanticleer is weathered! now let the rotes of pleasure
Rake up their seagull gears and angle into pit:
Crown of dawns and thorns in the angled spawn,
Chanticleer and weather redeem all fulsome hates!
Green is the beginning and green is heaven's ending;
Greenly wharve the waters and greenly spoil the lakes!
Green is the beginning and green is heaven's spleening;
Greenly wharve the towers and the harvest under fear,-
Toward the lap of fate flow the furnaces of Israel
And searing come the scars of the all too empty tear,-
Crime is neither manna nor toxic turning steeple,-
Mannawise, the word is as poisoned as a sphere.

 

x
Now the hymns are written and the law lies fairied.
Ten magnetic fingers plant the heroed ground.
Heaven lies contrary to the hellfire and its prairies.
Rhyme and tide alike hereby entreat the sound.
This is the hymen that opens for The Lady.
Heralded by trumpets, the jonquilled angels sing!
Heaven on earth is what the preacher's story
Rides upon this world of seraphs on the wing!
Now the hymns are written and the law lies fairied.
Ten magnetic fingers plant the heroed ground.
Heaven lies contrary to the hellfire and its prairies.
Crime and tide alike hereby revile their hound:
And life, as lovely as life itself is lonely,
Charms the sacred snake. We snap the town?

 

xi
Crime is state and crime is molten master.
Suffered by the seas, the flight of crime is round.
Flare after flare, the hymnals in the chimneys
Ride the slaughter boatmen into haloed mound.
Crime is state and crime is molten master.
Suffered by the undead crucibles of fate,
Crime and tide alike row madly through the pasture.
Flare after flare, the hymnals roll and rake.
Crime is state and crime is molten master.
Crime steers the orbit that makes the sirens bang.
Crime is both a master and a cryptic fastener.
Crime and tide alike trip greyly through the sand.
Crime after crime, the runes contract their sentries.
Crime after crtime, the sentries clasp the hand.

 

xii
The voyage is over, the knaveward blaze distracted.
Razed from darksome waters, the ship of time is troved.
Snipped from the decks, the wrecks of blood and mortar
Wind their rending ways into the hillside's lobes.
The voyage is over, the naveward blaze distracted.
Crime after time, despising heroes smile.
Snipped at the decks, the wrecks of blood and mortar
Wind their rending ways into the hills of bile.
Ended and after, opened by crime's closing,
Dowsed and regaled come the jewdrops and the rain:
Crime and tide alike float wryly and reposing:
Hammer into anvil is the music in the brain.
The voyage is over, the naveward blaze distracted.
In the shard-suckled hills, the slips of reason flame?

*

**********************
THIS GRAVE'S GRINDING KNOW-HOW
(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.

***********************
**************************
*****************
AS IN HEAVEN?

i
severed as pleasure, this world of angelled leisure,
in the fields that are young and flailed in their lease,
melds with the spheres and the tears in woollen gear
and the earth that is cold and older than peace,
and calls to the spiels of the milk-white weals
that turn and turn in the wrecks of space,
where, out of a prayer in the lochs of a lair,
time in its heaven frolics in the east.
Stars, glad and serried, slow and cantilevered,
moons, spumed and holy, here refrain to spires
in the mansion-burning house which, quiet as a louse,
scuttles greyly down to the kingdoms of the town
and graces the faces of the furled;
in a flume of a spinney, the earth, enstoved in pinny,
runs madly into the combs of the bones
that rattle for the idylls of a whim.
Safe and smooth, this world of moans is grooved
in the sadness of the caves that mentor the slaves
of the sea that is lowly and pretty. From
the sides of the bees to the centaur of the trees,
may this worldy love now be said. Ah!
may the emperising soul in her mantis-levered roll
snive swiftly into the eagle's breeze,
and may the law of golden, grating yore
be lashed upon the sequins of the holy.

ii
Night and its minions on the clouds above the pinions
in the glassed and gloaming canteloupes of fears
takes the world vermilion into the world virginian
and raps the bad hands of the flashing, floaming weirs,
where, in the camplights of the soaring, rapine bellemnites,
crushed is the cobra in the regal brain -
now may forever this eremited weather
crack the colonel coda of the endless brain.
Burning is the night: night and day is might:
burning is the kestrel as she mallows high!
burnt and burning yet are the fallows in their debt:
burnt and burning still is the tawsing sky!
For a spatial place, shall the menstrual sparrows pace
and the eaves of the trees that teeter, glide?
or shall the wicked rich and their wicked evil niche
come tearing at the widows in an eye?
Haygold as ermine, love is regal vermin,
as this haloed house is emptied of its birth:
the mouse, sour as souse, crawls into the mouth
of the catkin tree, as seagull visions storm to plea!
music of effluents, that the heavens may be regiment,
now may the sindling spider turn
and web the sidling heirs of the peerage in its nave,
gaspish as the silver in its urn!
And naked and forsaken lie lineaments of raping:
not a cloth is spared in the plunderments of time!
nobodaddy sits as his nowhere battle shifts
from trendlessness into an end-stopped crime...
Now what for the world? as in heaven, so in death,
so in the cradling of the blair-club under arm,
and jesus, as he splits his mental daughter's kith,
briars muddily into its mortared calm.
For faith I must sing! for the worded cur of wings,
this whirl of words must be my charm!
no winnowing be mine, nor any brightness blind
these foams of mortality, nor any second mind.
For I have feared, have feared for loving's worth,
have stretchered rainbow's end with christening blood;
now may this earth, as in heaven, teach no birth
and the leadenness of living fall behind.

*************
*******************

******************
The man in the hills (after Dylan Thomas' The Hunchback In the Park')

the man in the hills
an atavisitic misterer
stacked between lochs
and laburnum's whisper
a chain-gang mourner
to the entoscopic dead
the man in the hills
mason to the head

shaping no store
for the weeping women
nor breaking no light
for sidereal sun
thamesward as mortar
graveward underwater
the man in the hills
mason to a drum

death comes quickly
cold as cobra searing
demonic as a sentry
hypnos rules the womb
the man in the hills
mason to the century
the cruel furled dreamer
young and old as ills.

****************
*****************
***************

HEAVEN? (A SERMON)
(Influenced by, Dylan Thomas' Poem in October)

it was a torrid year in heaven -
rooked by the searings in angel basted pools
and the shy, sly wallowings of the leavened
and occidental arbours of the spheres,
the dawning, warming, arose,
with the seraphs playing and the cherubic world
rocking in the priest kilned labia
of bible and brook, ocean and spire,
where the druid fathers, crooked on crooks,
baptised their ancient fingers in the mire.

heaven began with the wafered
winnowings of birds in the winged trees
singing the lord into flame,
and the day rose and the sonshine showered
on the broads of the weevilling hills,
beheld by the mutinous padres
whose lone and loitering lives
lay smattered in the nucleus of time
and burned hedonly black
on the souled expulsions of the moors.
with a ramful of rivers rolling
with the clouds and the lakeside flushes grooving,
with the curled lochs and their teetering mirrors
coiling and casting hellfire to the wind,
on a rill's shoulder, with a pearling
whirl of metronomes and glaciers whooping,
here mad heaven began,
where the fond climates and their haulering swingers
balanced on a gun
and brought the holy law into being.

gnarled rain over tutoring evil
and stuttered manna in a church of raves,
with the pert priesthoods gurning
and the worldside gusting up the graves,
out of the guardens of slingshot summer,
out of the blooming cathedrals of accord,
time went rambling idly by,
and the lord above was metalled
in the seminal rogues of the spined
and flair-beleaguered weather,
and the world swirled and the mirths
of the blithe and bibled country swam
for the altared ides in the stream;
the stream that sprang like an orthocoptic beam
of god on this earth forever,
with mandarins and pears and redulent currents
and melingering whorls of quincering wheys,
and a world of angels and their harp-stung
missions burthened and brazened
in the natural hearts of a cousined nave,
and the tightly blazing birch tree,
that is the fear that burns on sermoned cheeks,
gashered now and furnished
the moving stone with grace. these
were the woods and the rivers and
the seas, where heaven gnawed
at the roe toes of god
and the splintertimes of the dead whispered
up and out against their truthful joys -
space and crime were hereby sistered.
and there the light could babble
in the ladied weather that span around,
and the rude boys on the lung-red hills
could gabble in the virgin mary's streams.

it was a torrid year in heaven,
and the heron flew as the falconers sang
for peace on this biblical earth. Oh,
may the lord be fine in his mad truth
forever as ever becomes
on this wry note in its seminal suit
that is forever the Son.

*****************
********************
NATIVITY by jim bellamy
(Influenced by, Poem on His Birthday)

on the fulsome run
from stalwart quiver and scuttering gun,
where the fusing muses flood
in a worded cave of bickering fires
and bastardising birds,
this world of christ rent bays in burning
blasts and cedar wood storms
an earth of lordly raves;
plectrums strum and spurn.
before and upward go
boulders, beaks, on their graveward trail,
where music spears and breaks,
with angels too loud in the scuttering waves
and reefs recoarsing home
and the caped baptiser in the churning foam
who soils his pen with paper
moiling forwards into the rented sun,
heaven, haled at heart, a martyr.
in the mill of the mind,
deeply sat where lillies reap and pare
this lord sings for light once only;
seconds stop, and eagles flair
in the clawed and saline tears of a life
that is aligned with the babyhoods of spheres
lowly turning; tall fissures gyre
and through the cribs of spectacles
the hawking virgin sprees
with the heistlong temples churning
and the world at zero waving into prayer
and the curves of heroes flowing
whose laving crucibles boil the air
and shuttle roundly down
into sweet silence, where the stars
climb spineingly into their eaves
and on, as pleasure kills
and crusades for the heavens spurning.
in a black chair, strung
from the strings of jesu's art,
in a wave of violence, ripped and hung
by the galleons in the ark,
by hook and crook, time's jesters vie
for eventide, for wholesome streams,
as chain and halter cuttle round his dreams
and shape a millstone for his neck
where demonic roses briar into screams,
and eagerly he grows glad
in the duckponds and ninevehed weed
famous as the fabulous and mad
for whom his pageant bolsters into greed
and drums a tune, where fishes fire
and golden arrows colt into the locks
and parry the zion-sidled wires
that drag the lakes for the christened smock
that is, at once, an ocean.
and there this lord might be seen
to shine with the spirits as they fold
along the nordic bays
and the marrow married eagles
and the goslings in the pyres
and the fistering crooks of the cocks
who rise from satanic shires
and call the crimes of day
that are leaden with the divots of the dawn.
And heaven is so far away!
god, on earth, must murder quite alone
with all his crucifiction staid
and his communion hotly droned
like a sermon; how the day
revels with the sinners is applombed
by the dragglings and the ragglings
of the all-too-latent thinkers
whose visionary gabblings must ignite
or never sight the air
nor the heart-caped angelus
whose glowerings are as harped as crime
itself: O, let this world
tarry with the lord and his rude nativity,
with the vowerings of children and
the powerings of time; now
ever may this voyage of angels be swathed
by the fables of a dying mind.

**********************
********************

A DEAD NATIVITY (by jim bellamy)
(Influenced by dylan thomas' A Winter's Tale)

it is a dead nativity
that the burned, blind berries stand serried on the trees,
and the scuttered, flittering fields in the rafters of the grail,
and the angelus that floats in a spineless, furling sea,
with the nailed crests of children raining on the dales,
and the priesthoods raving madly,
and the swell smell of snow within a wood, and the taraway stars
warming down upon a wombless world, and the booming babies
harpstung with the maidens whose wildness floams and scars
in the bullring laid bereft by the oxened lady.

once, when the lord rode lowly
on a cloud of bitter butter pure as molten lead,
as the food of god was lovely, a flare from herald angels fell,
where, roving gaily, the scrolls of fire burned up their beds
and tore across the crucifixion's cells;
and there, in the sun-slicked fields,
burning then as now, the tyrelit, crazy isles
of jacob and his sandalled ladder roared and rose and fell
from east to west, across a fairied, occidental smile
that combed the crypted yards for angelled drums
and banged back dearly,
with the cattle purring and the rousering cats alight
and the scuffled birds and the spheres of music clearly
varnishing into the beards of night. Oh,
the maids of molten minions lunged in red delight!

and the lord set forth and strayed
in his mused career: in the city marshes, levees, and
the banging nights on the hill, he strayed
and shaped a roman rhythm from his ovum-pealing hands
as time, ignobling, bouldered up the graves.
but only the wind sang.

the hunger of the birds was thrilled into the swording spine,
and the waters, crossing, crushed upon the holy lungs
and brought the curs of eden into nether, knocking crimes
that none could spring. No,
to deliver, to be slaved,
in losing life, the lord above must always seem
as careless as a warbler! how the mazy, granite grave
crashes round the mind and breaks its native scheme
blows maniacally back against the world in nave
and yields no prayer

and the minstrels, who, once flowing in their regalled song,
pared the ravens down with the runes of open love,
and the weals on the winds of the glowering and strong
who, once certain, aspired to hand in glove,
and the passion of the floaming
ecstatic scream that hires the word above;
none, nobody here nor elseways, could save nor shore nor
restore the love of jesus to the buds,
nor the war of loving to the grievance of the good.
but the red wings are raised
and the carved limbs of spiders throe and flock -
webs of age on moving stones are spun and always spurned
and the cancer in the oat of sin is defrocked;
and the heavens, burning, furnish into fens
the simple words of immortal stains -
by the spit and spermazote that heavenwards turn,
the soldered fire of festive, nippled loving reigns. for
he who wharved the waters in the gallilean seas
and plumed the depths for the miracles of spirit spires
rags and drags the dervished devil round
into the summits of the golden and accidental pyres. for
he who took the sky as his keen and vestal bride
and floated on a cloud and scaled god's aspen tree
is here purported by the revels of his eyes
and crashed into the ashes
of a stealed and burning mission. Oh

ide of idol vision and burnishing, banishing break,
in the noosed spheres, how lovely love now comes
who has sought out the saviour for the heart's intake;
how lovely comes the native on the run.

**************************************
*****************************************
THE RINGS OF DAVID
(after dylan thomas)

in rotes of ash, where starlarks sweep,
beneath the grooving stone of hawk-held graves,
tonight the rings of david reap
as barren as the flashes of the womaned naves
and labour after love is murdered gladly.
in rotes of ash, where starlarks sweep,
the children stamp and weed for peace,
whereby the kin and kith of night
gargle death in the fields too bright,
and alone in the furied mystic tracts,
weaving their wreaths for the millstoned sun,
weeding for peace and friendship unto none
in rotes of ash, the rings of david stun,
which, once lowly below the golden bowers
in splintered reputations and balmfuls of flowers,
took to the sail and cruised the devilled smile
of sealion and sealer, and the snaffelingered guile
of the lord above, constrained: how the veins
glistered and gluttered in courted, champagne lanes,
or twined in the box of the mutton-bloating womb,
is here untold and ever shall rethoom
as the gaspings and the graces of the dreams strike doom
which, once above a time, were knighted.
time dies, and the dust that was flesh is stoned
in the flaring creeks of the idol underloamed,
and the lights in the eye are spreadeagled by the cry
of the druids in the warrens undergun ,-
for rough as acid tongues, the semen that benumbs
is here hob-railed and riven into drum,
first stippling, then becoming as a sentinel to coming
that hales the heartless halestone of the golden fleece.

once, below a mind, king david and his fine
felony of men took highroads and ordained
a scurrying in the cellars of a life,
(and what a cellared life it really was!)
more, buttered fatly, bounced on bosomed bridges,
with their hearts full of seed and
their whorl of words in oathish definition,
did these bad wives of david in his pride
kiss the shippen lips of the long dead winter?
the lust in the dust and the metals in the crust
swim from whim to whim, in a copulative spin;
the fawkesire briars and their contemplative mires
battering from church to the fairied style
round and down to the feasts of flairing sound
and the clause in the moors that snaps the cistern mane
and claps with the sineless dreamers underground
in the spineless fens, as the rings of david maim
each tawdry, spurning transept under wreak
and the caul of god and the collical of sex
and the shapeless oat of the ship of galillee
and the clock with the cock and the casuistry
with the holy sum of the summer undergnarled
as haloed as the heroed serpent undersnarled
and the evensong of the aaron underblood
and the hymened kiss of the sister bust in bud.

...copyright jim bellamy 2005.

...

ONCE BENEATH A SPINE by jim bellamy
(Influenced by, Once Below a Time)

i
once beneath a spine
when the bedrocked, ramrosed
rumour-rogered rite
of the angel-roaming rasta
went smokily into the snows,
my blaze-born, snive-shorn
rove of ruin that is love,
in trilby-trove and bells
went snottily down the sloanes
of time, where i shirked
mazily for the hands of flashers,
fusselled in tie and collar
and freckled with the blues of the curt
angle that is life, where
wrecked by weed, i zioned my shirt
and pusselled down the zeros of the night
then swift as the hack of
watch-chain into iron,
past the out-of-mitching tailors
whose world of words is crime,
out of the sedative lions of clay
who prowl the bit of contracted spite
and snide back queasily,
where time and its harness rave appeased,
the lord and his nailers
whose cocoon of smegma scathes the grave,
snipped the veilings of the sentinelled labia
and clapped the cross with a nave
where mankind's cobbling, yet-to-be-aligned
suit of hard-strapped labour
smacked easily back to castor lathe
where the stove of flavour lay maligned.

ii
this world of snoops
hardily reneging truths,
roundabout some coffin shuffling
for the cowl-man and his roots,
has the nicksaws rumbling
for the cell-cat and its moves,
head deceiving under viol mailing
the cloud perched at the railings
and the pee-in-a-bottle
co-curdling as it swoops; the
clash of a womb in city suit -
all these, as is the way, must
mangle the mantlepiece with preachers
and the boy in the bright dreg,
the soiled pretender, the whorld at end,
the gnash of the tooth at fly-piece centre,
the moil of the ethos in bookscore vend;
all, all must succeed
to clot the stain in the greaseproof bowel
as east to west must sunder best
and knot the bloods of a duty
now shorn and mainly bare,
lie down, lie here for the curie;
lie down, lie down
as quiet as a lair,
lie down, lie down in seventh storey,
for i am here who may not die
and knows no route to fury;
for less than this, i should fly, fly, fly
for knowing no suite of beauty

*************************
**************************
THE MAP OF BLOOD

the shores burned red, the ruby waves
as coiled in cold as running graves;
the sea furled round, the ruby oars
as coiled in cold as open doors.

down from love, the whalers sprang
a manic kiss from out death's bang;
the sea furled round, the ruby oars
as coiled in cold as opus maws.

this is the ocean's word of proof,
the nitric sum, the artist's tooth;
no man may enter in through dream
except through waves of congered scheme.

the shores burned red, the ruby waves
as coiled in cold as jesu slaves;
the sea furled round, the ruby oars
as coiled in cold as open doors;

so too, this earth of fire and flame
can only warp its zero fame,
and so the summer under drum
must weal to birth away its son.

this is the world, the likeness of
no mother child may cede to god;
so too, the winter in the rose
must weal to birth away its lobes.

the sun shone thick, the metal mind
as coiled in earth as judas brine;
the nitric whisper under soul
as moiled in surf as judas coal,

thus from the moon, the sickle cell
of brain and bren in endless belle
shot forth the locks of priested doom
and racked the heart with stolid tomb.

cobweb is mine, so too, the clave
of wicked riches in red cave;
the menstrual slick, this oiling fold
as furled in seed as sadie's mould;

the ark of lud is christian cud,
each way to see, a scheming mister;
no child may peer behind the blood
enough to savour mary's whisper.

thrice from hero, thrice from heaven,
thrice the climb of theorems seven;
thrice the saw, thrice the hand,
thrice the butcher in god's hand -

underwave, my birth was plenty,
undergrave, my birth was empty,
underwave, my birth lay crocked,
undergrave, this earth is locked.

ingot fuelled in prismed waters,
the seance turner bears dead daughters,
the sun rucks up, the moon throes down,
the stars deny and rape the town

and such was love in clays of semen
light struck christ and raved forever,
the world at zero babbling maternal,
as endless as the clock eternal.

sidereal widow of the worthless child,
blasted crypt of the scissor in the wild,
what for the ship of eden's serried grave;
what for the sentinel wrapped in stave?

undermortar, the coded fist of death
raps with the tithes of the charted breath,
no lore to tweeze, no thunder petalled under,
nor any dream to raze as hedons sunder.

the collicle of the chapel in the moon
has birthed no life since light saw bloom;
each way we see, each seized eye blown
must warp the night to move the stone.

as much as bows must slit the thames,
this graveward scat must never end,
nor any sphere of easter proving man
go roundabout to prove love's lamb.

the seed of self, this selfward blizzard,
as old as wealth, must shape its wizard,
each winnowed whim of woman gone
as cold and furled as hate's horizon;

and petra in the book of blood
shall go to prove no sainted love,
nor any ship gone ravelling by
forsake the heart of judas sky .

look, for love must wane no more,
see, for love must wage no war,
seek, for love must wane forever,
find, for love denudes its pleasure,

shape, for love must know no peace,
break, for love must sheave the east,
rape, for love must live to die,
shake, for love shall know no lie.

the sun shone up, the moon shone down,
the ocean's whimper broke the town,
the western veil of moons gone over
dictating light to summer's solder;

the candle wax of seas gone deaf
melted water with love's theft,
the western veil of moons gone over
dictating death to winter's motor.

no man may see the way to live,
no woman might disprove her end,
no child may seek the way to give,
nor any victor seal love's rend -

the motile planet in the tides
has eighteen gifts, all dead as eyes,
its orbit, pared to share with none
each golden dreamer on the run.

death is theft, theft is duality,
dual is the mind in the church that thrals;
so too, this world of stealed reality
duels with the brain in its metal halls,

the stall of crime has no more proof
of any mind than death in truth;
so too, the ark of endless vision
has endless death in truth's division.

the sun boiled brown, the ticking heart
a time-bombed mentor of red art,
the moon boiled black, the ticking breath
a time-bombed mentor searing theft,

each way to live is life sold old
and every cellar knows life's role;
the sun blew up, the moon turned round,
the bomb of fusion broke the ground;

so too, the endless heart of nothing
must strike away the christian coming.
the sun blew up, the moon turned round,
the bomb of fusion broke the ground

the sun blew up, the moon turned round,
the bomb of fusion broke the ground.
the sun blew up, the moon turned round,
the bomb's delusion made no sound. ...

the womb boomed, the occidental quest
as bowed in blood as a thooming bell,
the moon rucked east, the western womb
as bowed in bed as a spectral well,

then down, down went the regal chancers,
dark as the dream that set light to the stars.
the moon rucked south, the womb of nests
as boned in the mud as a deck of cars.

the word of the will is cellular maiden,
the bird in the mill is delicate lust;
the collicle dance of the man in lance,
dark as dreams, as real as rust.

and on went the cruise of the follicle womb,
down, down, down, dreadsome as the coast,
each weal of christ, an occidental heist,
flailing at the seal of a rocksidental roast.

so the heart is endless as an emery
this enemy world, a doctored state of schemes.
down, down, down went the seagull town;
down, down, down went the clown of dreams.

world under world, zeroed into penury,
blue as the duck in the mantle-raping bone,
rocked in the knock of the seizured stars,
man in manna parish spiels away the stone,

and law is taken and haloed wars are waged
and war is taken and heroed laws are scorned;
so too, the womb, as endless as the caged,
spirals to nothing, cold as words forewarned.

and down, down, down went the major seed,
and down, down, down went the minor seed,
and down, down, down went the labial need,
and down, down, down went the saviour's run.

deep in the darks of the all-too-endless ark,
proctored in the bread, sweat thrals on;
dives dig out, drugged as mary's rout;
deep in the darks, the womb throes wrong.

dark as the deed in the undertaken weed,
proctored in the mouth, brine's heroes rill;
and down, down, down goes the town,
as maimed inside as a window-sill.

this is the earth, so learn to live it;
this is the curse, so learn to crib it;
this is the son, the moon, the rain;
this is the earth, the stippler's vein.

endless as the creature's grieving
in the axe of orbits under snare,
flued as christ, as wedded as rice,
death to death must reap despair;

so this spine of all-too-empty thieving,
red as dead, must mediate to doom,
menstrual as the colic creak of summer,
red as dead, cruel as loving's bloom.

nailed in the field, nailed in the vein,
nailed in the sun, rapturing to nothing,
coiled in the cold as a soldered rose,
nailed in the field, the sun lies snuffing.

so the heart, so the shendless barter
of the beam in the blade of music's laughter;
so the soul, so the trendless rudder
of the ship of life in the veined hereafter.

so the spirit, so the friendless rivet
of the sick den sailor, rollering under;
so the divot, so the seed of privet
in the cruel and canyoned arc of thunder.

so the door that opens on the moor
and the soiling trip of the clitoral sine;
so the slaughter in mnethna's daughter
and the foiling trip in the brainward kine.

down, down, down, dead as a crown,
the farrier pharaoh in the meadow's break,
snickering dread as the trailing dead,
oiled the beard of the king of rape,

and real was the loss and dead was the lie
and cleft was the liver in the open eye,
and foaled as the heart of noah's arc,
down, down, down came the shended sky.

the heart is gismed into mirror,
the soul is prismed into quiver,
the mind is fissioned to incender;
so the scream, so the endless ember.

human suer, what brought thee nearer
to the drains in the art of hero's manual?
doubtless the sickle in the raging nickle
and the whirling price of the minor's sandal;

and in the dim of the vim in the skin
and the rim in the penile host,
down as the man in the song of pan,
soiled flows the holy ghost.

lift the latch, watch time spoil,
sear the thunder in the pistoned hand;
as much as man is abaddon's clan,
lift the latch, watch time moil;

as the heart is narrow in number,
lift the latch and watch love trawl;
as much as man is abaddon's clan,
lift the latch and smite the fall.

mauled, the moll of doctored duty;
beateous, the mallow in the narrow vein;
mauled, the moll of heaven's duty;
beauteous, the marrow in the narrow lane.

down, down, down goes the ship of courage,
down, down, down goes the slip of fear,
down, down, down goes the sailing marriage;
down, down, down, as silent as a tear.

the frigate that parries down to murder
chops off the hands of the man at sea;
thus the stripper in the sails of the clipper
chops off the heart and fells love's tree.

and all in all, the thraller in the stall
knows no nave but the navel's bruising,
and all in all, the thraller in the mall
knows no grave but the nave's abusing.

buried in the black, demoned in the slack,
flaccid as the queen on the stage of nails,
railed as the heron who acted hereclean,
buried in the black, vaginal as wales,

blasted in the pot of the hangman's rot,
bruted as the colt of the equine's rave,
masted as the master of funereal laughter,
blasted in the pot, the nine niles rage.

and man who is born to cut down woman,
creeled in the mane of the knacker's plea,
must glut away each seance of the day
and crack the hat of the masoned sea.

down, down, down go the mourners,
down, down, down floe the wrens,
down, down, down flow the corners
of the pinnace in the dens.

down, down, down, empty as endless,
down as the deeps, macadam flies;
down go the men, down goes woman;
down go the children in the coconut shies.

so the world is zenned in rental fortune,
dinted in bracken, dented under scud,
and music knows no end to aldebarren,
no end to the flicker in the forging bud.

streets shall know, rhodes shall know,
spaniards shall live for sordid ever;
and music knows no end to its roe,
high as the grave in the gusset's river.

drownward, townward, raveward, graveward,
stageward, latheward, rageward, braveward,
dark as the snickler in the marathon mallus,
man in macadam is as old as the phallus,

and masons who kill can only thrill
each blast of the bride in the aisle of god,
and god who comes can only thrum
deep where the rivers of the wild take rod.

deadward, redward, spreadward, shredward,
real as the loss of the spirits in the womb,
arced as the heart in the all-too-empty ark,
man to macadam is as old as woman's bloom,

and death can only stopper to seek us
as light, as red as the ring inside the moon,
sears to the breed of the bottle in the seed
and the shendless reef of the reedless tomb.
down, down, down, as old as heresy,

down to the decks in the bricked-in bone,
down, down, down, as curled as heresay,
no more the light, just breath's blue moan.
down, down, down, as old as herod,

down as the slick in the nicked-in throat,
down, down, down, as furled as hero,
no more the light, just breath's blue note.
down, as the first siege seed of weeping,

down, as the instant raper of the shore,
down, as the fist in the weevilling sinker;
all down go, as cold as judar's war.
down, as the first sick ram of reaping,

down, as the feud in the fuedal bed,
down, as the fisk in the flame of thinking
seas, this world is cold as dead.
man looks out to find andromeda

drowning speed with tendrilled moan;
so the heart of coiled angelica,
so the vice in the rhinal drome.
down as the god of gasward rumour,

drowned in the spit of the nitric sun,
coiled and curled in the spirit's humour,
townward goes the spoolward drum;
thus the spode of the wealing pagan,

blanked in fusion, serries down to nil,
knaveward as the heart of reegan,
blanked in fission, buried as the will.
motion maims the manna-reaping ocean,

oceans maim the mumma on the cliff;
knaveward as the heart of emotion,
blanked as fusion, zeroids drift.
down, down, down came the hand

of the summer in the venturer's span;
down came the law, down came the love,
endless as the map of blood.
down, down, down came the sweep

of the sphincter in the street of defeat;
down came the law, down came the love,
endless as the map of blood

down came the law, down came the love,

endless as the map of blood..

down came the law, down came the love,
endless as the map of blood.

......

copyright jdb 1999.

...

FOR HELL IS NOT THE END
(Influenced by, And Death Shall Have No Dominion)

For hell is not the end
Man, as boned in wheat as love,
shended deep, must teeter on,
light, as loamed in heat as blood,
rended high, must greet the son;
and the soul of petra's burning,
shended up, must punish red
for hell is not the end
for hell is not the end
For death is not the end

Children, stoned in fields of dream,
arced in life, must soldier dread
night, endomed in meadow stream,
arked in christ, must whisper dead
and the soul of petra's burning
arcing under, must strike doom
for hell is not the end
for hell is not the end
For death is not the end

Women, lanced in mustardseed,
dark as heaven's heroed purpose,
serried with the graves of greed,
lanced at mind, must run right thru
and the soul of petra's burning,
dancing over, must strike theft
for hell is not the end
for hell is not the end

and sex
is not the end.

****************
********
SON?...

Never until the sonshine's burning
shends away the spires of yearning
shall the pyres of hero's spurning
warp away the garden's power
nor till man has built his empire
in the rills of herod's sapphire
shall the seed in saline storming
rend away the signal hour.

deep with the dreamer's death
light strips the screamer's heart
thamesward as the wombshine's
endless scorning of the dark
nor shall woman rath forever
neither shall breath burn eternal
nor shall herod thrill the weather
till the soul is seed maternal.

dead as love in endless shape
with the winter of christ's dower
cauled in fusion's trendless wake
eden's store must steal the power
neither shall the spirit's sentence
warm the soul with moving stone
death must totter into pleasance
as the arch of time shall foam.

***************************
****************************
THE HAND THAT ROCKS THE CRADLE SHAPES THE GRAVE
by jim bellamy

i
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave;
that lies lynched talons
to the fathering trees,
does down all breath, as the templers rave.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the seas.
Though the trees be plain and spumed at birth,
though the angels as they groove
compose a parried breeze,
high with the hand that ravels through the earth,
the bastard heraldic murders as she weaves;
and where the tendant manna rises from its flirt
and sharpens the harp;
where haloed matter seethes,
cruel come the crones of beast and tare and wort;
cruel come the farriers of the cindered seed.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave;
that ties lynched talons
to the fathering trees,
does down all breath as the templers rave.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the seas.

ii
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.
In the mangled daisy; inside the peal of bells;
up where martyrs bury the mortars in a spell;
in the mangled daisy; inside the peal of bells;
beside the pouted lady, the proctorates swell.
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.
God is neither locust nor primate convertor.
Christ is neither primal nor ignoble weed.
Gabriel is neither paragon or deserter.
Time and tide alike dwell darkly in the seed.
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.

iii
Conceived in the womb, the word unravels,
slighted by the spindles
of a sermon's troubles;
thread to thread, the root unfolds;
and brazen as the man who scales the mountain,
creation enhearses and extols.
This is the curtain on the coffin's signals,
the nature of the world
that forces through a prism;
down drinking leaves, vision furls;
and as mortal as a martyr's mission,
time is flashed against this world.
God's image treads the trees and tunnels;
no lord of war is seen appeased;
down routed footfalls flow the runnels
of rectored space; the word betrays the seas;
and in the flames, the falcon pummels
and brings its purdah unto the trees.

iv

The halo's course is raised: the mystic tantrum
that drives the glowering rocks
is here perfused:
the rot that sires the clock, the heroed ransome
is here destroyed, the fickle caste removed.
The halo's course lies buried in a mountain:
who comes to die
lies split by life to spine:
the anger drummed and drunk on cryptic stanchions
here rocks the roasting angels as they climb.
The lips of speech do not retell their summons:
love's gibbet, slain,
hangs wryly from the trees:
the gorse that makes the temples rend their sermons
lies dumbed and drained of all its shended seed.
The time that ticks immortal and purportal
here sifts the docks of crime
into an eye that pleas:
the rise of crime into a world aortal
here lies staved
and written on the trees.

v
God comes! In undead waters, angels wingle;
come unto seastruck towers, the furies fold;
the flight of spatial mortar girds its simples;
the tendrils of the godhead spear and mould.
Within the sun god, sphered, the pointed ferrule,
bright and brassy, blasts apart the grave;
star set for multicolour, jacob's angle
strips the sex of jonah and is saved.
Smoke in shippen hills and oaken valleys,
where the eagle's eyrie steers and rocks,
strides the holy tendril and its galleys;
where the gods are brazen, nature knocks.
One by one, the slash of vision chaffers;
in the sin green fables of the mind,
manstrung ancthers reach for holy masters;
in the stoving bone, the templers grind.
Love, like words on water, must fade gladly,
yet the heavens write against the tides.
Love and death assail on seas of parity;
death and love shall beat the holy ides.

vi
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
Ten skulled fingers
stub the humours down.
Death is the tomb of money and its bringers.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the town.
In the sallow spheres of bird and angel;
where the parson crows
and the holy boast receives,
death is the tomb of money as it glows.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the seas.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The hand that suffers life
is the pall bay in the coves;
death is the tomb that snaps alive the knife.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the rose.
The hand, the hand that does down death
parries and marries
to the infant in the deed;
death is the rumour that murders as it carries.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes all need.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the angled seas.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The sun that is young lies buried in the weed.

**********************************

copyright jdb 1998.

...

SLIT CITY by jim bellamy

i
With my tongue against the window-pane,
hair shelters come to car,
the dark, a herald to awake
the ligron in the bar,
all table bills, each bird in cross
a raiding of the nihl sumer;
dust nailed, the power of seiging light
rakes up the news with powder.
rust in a rind, lust black as soot,
night's lattice, moonish in its frame,
the whirring cores of kingdomed diamond
ceding chairs to arcs of flame,
heaven peeks, death seancing
where porking soldiers scheme too wise;
urined under, the sunderer's number
reveals death's dromed disguise.

ii
Out where the loaming service fires
marsh the ducts of widow roofs,
animal comes creation's mouth,
the leaves beyond, a pirex flier;
how hungry goes the doctoring shadow
that pleads against the veins of proof,
man set in towers, his raging power
dug down where spheredos slit the breath,
and hundred die the horses
and crudely come the tumblered doors
and sirened throe the coursers
and endless spume the business wars;
raiding all, beating all, grinding owls to winter
the head in papercup smashes herod's jaw,
the sun mine, forcing, the womb, raping,
rain, paging on forever,
veinward as this crippled reason.

iii
Chicken basements staple to tombs,
waiting for the time to come.
reaping the saviour, hourglass reins
enlorry the bowers of urbane spite.
in to the stylus of dying logic,
soiling the statues, crack-hits spoil,
light switching the baby in the bread
to raid the cables of the mind.
no license knows the dower of death
nor any lifeless child comes near.
how hunted grows the river's theft,
how empty glow the eyes of fear.

iv
hammed with the dusk, clays in falon
rip the horders from the atom;
life in herding sits apart
as solder soldiers rape the heart;
doomination pickets over
driving hammers into sofa,
cars align with light meat slicks
as the neon grave breeds sick.
setting fire to denless porters,
this sporting life reports to none;
urine rakes the heartless bylands,
coproed grows the golden one.
To the douchers of the west
I repeat my second best,
my tongue against the window-pane
as tense as warders in the rain;
each vamping sense is heated dead
and life beyond itself can't feel,
the sun, the star, this sporting life
as gauzed in grief as catherine's wheel;
and when the lime of day arrives
to squander sense five storeys down,
the muscle in this kiss-kilned world
must come to none, must surely drown.

********************************
*********************************
ON THIS MOST LORDLY DAWN by jim bellamy

On this most lordly dawn
when the fires in the mind are chimed abed
and the chapels in the wards of the heart
lie warped in the cells of the graveward sun
love, with siren sermon searing under
dedicates forever to the lowly.

On this most lordly dawn
when the cock crows summer, wolved at eye,
and the flaring spin of the winter mind,
with springing solace, sounds day to sever
the passionless void of the moonless sky
love dedicates, demands, estranges.

Now slam the hand that plucks,
now lam the tides that rend the winds apart;
with shended finger, split the atom's word;
beneath the lightning's den, let centaurs spin
and lights in flight delude their dead dreamers,
petrified in petra's red demesne.

No Man is Enemy, Enemy Eternally
so begins the ghastling on its raging rise.

***************************************
*************************************
****************************************
THE CODE THAT FROM THE DAUGHTER
(Influenced by, The Force that through the Green Fuse)

The code that from the mortar shapes a crime
binds death to lime;
that serries with the graves of endless loving,
binds to nothing;
and ocean men who spire against the soul
take endless roll,
as real and red within as hero's coming.

The wax that from the halo topples truth
must seem uncouth;
that serries with the graves of mnetha's saunter,
binds to slaughter;
and endless ocean men who choose to cry
destroy the sky,
as real and red within as hero's daughter.

The rose that on the thral cleaves theft to call
binds death to all;
that jacks the siren soul aside from water,
shears manslaughter;
and ocean men who know no female light,
break from the night,
their winter follies, cold as hero's shoulder.
*********************************
***********************************
PAGE THE GRIEFS

Page the griefs that the grievous may stand
whose hearse-headed janus clays against the ground
to spear away the space inside the purse killed womb;
tucked in padded blood, the woman's home must end
and death must thrum like a pyramidic loser:

drained to shadow face, the light of god must steel,
each drill of veiling fate enwraithed in dairy waters,
plashed against the sinners in this steeple-married place.

Into immoral wasteground, I rove the fear of summer
and tell the lipless tale of the blood inside the brass,
forever making speed for the felons in the temple;
tapestried of mud, the loss of love is futed neurone.

the life farm knows best, all manhood toppling under
each detester in the ocean, each protester on the shore;
the beauty of the nile has long since lost its fury,
the sphinxing eye of peace, as blasted as love's beauty.

*****************************************
ELEGY FOR A MADMAN
(Influenced by, Ceremony after a Fire-Raid)

i
Ourcellves
the foamers
freeze
amongst the lobes burned bereft;
a mind of so few powers
with its charnelizing theft
spurned and spoiled black on its blasting grail,
the bedrooms bugged and the wardens all-deceiving.
Begin
with the sin
and the song of conceiving,
begin
with the skin
and the men who know no wrong way home
begin
with the son
and the daughter's coming,
ourcellves freezing now, where love lies stoned.
Be raped
as others rape you,
be maimed
as others maim you,
with this lifeless gesture of light gone cruel as mother rain
let man beneath cockcrow
bust the hymen's guile
and woman under woman grow red with radio reason.
Dying
this our dying
dies,
man before the storm, dwarved
by this, our sensual prying;
love is the last life spoken. ooo,
may the seed of christ lie buried and
the fasting ones be scorned.

ii
This man knows weather,
knows the wind, the
adorned cretin of time
and the white cloned lamb
and the toxic ermine
razed in the snows
of the eremites of london;
he is
the first to die,
he is
the last to die,
he is
the first to know
each razor in the rain
each hearse banged mister
I heard his legend
paring the wind, I
heard his mind
spin through the glaze
of rooks, ravens and crows,
over the silent orphans and
beyond into the one
last and lingering loss
of a mindless time;
he was
the searcher of the sun;
he was
the searcher of the moon;
he was..
he was...

iii
Into the spurning church there comes
one who is not right in the head
into the weathercock's molten mouths
comes rippling the ear-drummed dead
into the dreadful clock there comes
over the urns of the veins
one man, one son, one everywoman.
into the walldron comes he
who is man. In
to the strait thralway comes he
who is man. In
to the rent fountains comes he
who is mad, mad, mad. MAN.

**************************
****************************
STRETCHER CHRIST

Begin again the dials of stretcher christ,
whose mortal hospital of love in heist
kisses the crypts of the sinners and their wars,
rhythm enroaching on the stylights of the wards,
with the veils of manic murder all-concealing,
draggling the sun from the all-too-coptic moon,
no stone seized from the wakes of herod's hearing
nor any mind of mary seared against the gloom,
each word of daughtered fearing slaved to heaven.
For ever is the rapping of luke the pale,
whose drumless word enmartyrs hero's fission;
now may the matthew of the herald in a mind
wharve aside the sun and attone mad jonah's mission.

In the prayers of the mortised and all-too-preaching heart,
as endless as the love that set light to purdah,
now may the faiths of the sentry in the dark
build anew the temples in the waters of the ark,
direct as the angel in the warring strait of living.

Every lip of light, each grail of mystics flailed
is real in ascent, is zen-eyed as ghost disciples;
read through the bright, the mantis in the hand
has seven eyes, as cruel as death's denials.

Creeling the heart, the soul's seared centre
caverns from the mind a catacomb of dreams;
bestiaried under, the pall of fission's thunder
ravines at the slit, and breaks away the screens,
forever as dark as the shadows of a seed.

All that is known to the sigma of a death
must sail away, each heart of heaven asking;
the cavern of a mind, doped against its climb,
can only cede to the heart of heaven's basking,
and when the rage has pilloried the grave
enough to prove the wreck of thinking intertwined,
pealed in the arch of the ravines in the heart,
forever under love, the spires of human crimes,
dialing the brain and conceiving down to black,

must flail to floor, or else denude to nothing.

**************************************

 DENIER BUTCHER

At night I sheave the denier butcher
who stands alone in a field of flies,
forever the warden of the grandmother maker,
paper gramaphoned in a field of cries,
the greyhound sides of the night in reaping
flailing where the denier biscuit breaks,
for ever the walrus of spine ript horus,
drunk as the cemeteries of heat.
At night I sheave the denier butcher
who stands alone in a field of sloes,
forever the gandered lamp of oppression
shining where the siege of the eunuch blows
duck from ruck in a ruin of mono
stock-wheels, turning where the wombside mates
man to man in feline parish,
for ever as cratered as the seal of fates.
Whose crystal woman lies where the tenchcoats
split the mind in murmur, manics down to nil,
each way discerning this labial mourning
that runs down the suns of the lotus hill,
striking to suck where the tithes of blossom
boom in the wombs of death on its knees,
eternal as the silo in dilapidation's milo,
shadowed where the foreigner draws to feed.
At night I sheave the denier butcher
who stands alone in a field of submarines,
each way burning where the lap of sinking
raves at the sons of the opus screens,
death, the sleeper, set where time lies taloned,
pink as the reaper of the crimes waylaid,
dusk gone empty, as a canyoned sentry
flailing into flare the adjacent grave.
Flight of the swan, grouped beneath red sexes,
with the feast of the finger grey as grey,
to walk the sun of christ, to lever into baton;
to draggle with the dreamers; all must stray.
Pray to Him now who owns the lingus river;
pray! now let the summer withdraw to ore,
for the whistler in the veins has all-too-many skeins
and the darksome drift of winter vies for more.
Realmed in the baths of the all-becoming lady,
rama and sita must crush the limbs of death,
paving the day for this all-too-endless way,
the onanistic priesthoods, bibled in the breath.
The denier butcher of time left lonely
must wander where the wheels char the skin;
to ply for the drum, to vixen after music;
as much as man is sovereign, so the sin
must whip where the waters storm to breathing
and wail down the winds of the lip of dreams;
for ever the lord of the welded rivers,
with horse in hand, all mothering schemes
must loom brave, driving where red choices
thoom in the creek of the clock canal,
toothed and nailed, cobwebbed in cervix,
crippening the hangman's rude annal.
Pray! now set the fuses of the janus
deep in the arcs of the all-forgiving stars;
let time build, come seize the bloods of mallus;
watch as the hero hauls away the cars.
Denier alive with the butchering reasons
lounged on the tongue of the rimless dead,
ascent to descent must fable from its treasons
and ply with the prayers of the sloath of bread.
Pray! now let the pharasees lie veiling
and the valley of life set light to the wire;
begin again the body, let this feigning angel
brass with the blast of the all-too-tempting spire.
Pray! see time set denial toppling
and the loom of the night lay down for peace
and the coil of the sun enwrangle the rippling
of the nippling mice in the face of the east.
Forgoing the powder in the wombshine's stable,
christ must drown and the wheat be stored,
giant as the blake in the television cable,
blind as the black in the radio wards.
At night, I sheave the denier butcher
who stands atoned in a field of showers,
each way discerning how the sirens stutter,
pale as the country in the city flowers.

*********************************

HANGNAIL BAD ADAM by jim bellamy

Hangnail bad adam of the stars in their crease,
drayed counter of lot, tocked around the trees,
damage cracks like a mailering fleece,
down to the dams of the all-bewailing east,
each way leering, where the sita under spine
flays at the hand of the city's sundered mind,
the tears thereafter, raved down to betray
all the black of christs rocks against the day.

Of love told simply, truth must vie
to traitor the circle of the maniums of living;
forever, the dive in the dimpled brain
must spleen to methalated the skeins of giving.
living on beneath the rose-defaming seas,
enough times over, the anger of the father
has wreaked its theft at the ancthers of the trees,
the remnants of the lover, endless as the mother,
no man in macadam remaining.

Heal of Abaddon, the dutch clap of love,
real as the tide in the bud of choosing,
stocked to the heights of the dead in flight,
raped at the wheel, must cancer losing;
capricorned over, man in double solder,
soldiered in mind, must teeter the summer,
the laughter in the womb, den-eyed as doom,
endless as the coil of the winter's master.

The heel of Abaddon, busted in bud,
hordering schemes, must film dementia,
as damp as dry, the tooth about the eye
of the spider in the web, subventia.

The dawn comes easy to banquo,
his blanco blanket draining off to sleep;
enough is the sleet of the horses in the street
and the collared drug of the chemical nile.

a carafed dreamer, the dugs of cystic mary,
ruby as the rotten, duns the fog to undermine,
every fox of veils in the railer of the nails
vixened in the coptics of the rhine.
The data of eden is true:
only one man breaks through.
The dictum of the son is sourced:
only a woman's forced.

****************************
***************************
MANDRAKE STENCIL

And the mandrake stencil should serve
whose den-eyed thieftans curve
the abaddon of eden's rape
that time can shave the late
lichen of the tear in the moon
whose love of lingus womb
all-turns the dromes on high
till freedom talks through half-lie,
the rippled bottom of the straight
and mallowed concourse of the late
as cold as the lover of children,
where the waters of heaven co-create.

For the clinkered verboten of the sea,
four-eyed traitors seize,
yeared in the mallus of the mind
whose eunuched ways run blind,
all creched-in vision undertomed
by the tooth and nail of the thunderboned,
blaze-seated, where time laid down
cackles with the weals of the chapel-bound,
each glinted nape of the nippled sun
enshrouded in the darkness of a lung,
birds gone over, fevered cretins basking,
cretatious in the box of the lightning's asking.

Fairy-buttoned, hennaed through the veil,
the crystal soul has timeless pleading,
the neon lamp beneath the hollowed damp
dusted under, a child of searing wealing;
duned to the knives in the sands of lives,
maidened as senna, the drive of love protests,
denial's life, enmined in frosted heist,
cowed in the seal of herod's breasts.

Judas must bloom, haughty in his groove,
as much as christ departed for Him;
so the heart of the minor in the moon
must live too long, or else give in.

*****************************
***************************
REQUIEM (by jim bellamy)
(Influenced by, Dylan Thomas's ''A Lament')

When bereft of the bible's mouth,
and the black bauble of the chapel's curling,
(screamed the preacher, stamping and raving),
god snipt down the roses of the town
and danced in the womb that is womb only,
coursing, carousing his spirit to the hilt
of the prayerbooks, wracked and lowly,
and on gamboed nights, he swore for light
and brassed away his pillow's yearning,
with a flounce and a flash and a collical dash
at the lips of the virgin's burning.

When bereft of woman and beer
and the black bauble of the chapel's furling,
(screamed the preacher, madamed in railing),
not a thing could be done for the sun
of the crucified word in its idylled flailing,
nor were the words of the zeroed birds
enough to gaggle the runes of the curs,
as the vicars cried in the snuffs of the eyes
and supped in the weirs of the year's turning
spies! Whatever christ once did for the mice
lay back in the black of the gilded ceiling.

And when bereft of life and light
and the lammers of the cross were raging,
(screamed the preacher, chaffered in failing),
brandy couldn't scour the face in the flower
nor the windows in cathedralled raining,
and time rent idly up and westward by
into the breach of its convoluted spielling,
as the felons in the jail, tawsing like a nail,
rhymed with the dyes of their christian learning -
oh, time could not find a place for the mind
as the navy dark lay black as spurning.

For when god was old and always cold
and the heavens went slappering boldly,
(screamed the preacher, flayed in braining),
no hickory-dickory priory was sleekly
slandered by into the pews of blaming
damaged, damsoned plight. Oh,
then was the war of the words, my son,
then was the war of the words,
as death came to eve and the edened seed
lay smattered in the groins of whores,
and love, beyond sight, opened doors.

Now this god is a man and man's a tower
and the potblack cord of heaven booms,
(screamed the preacher, dying entirely);
for see! the word is envied madly,
bartered by the bubbles of criminal taste,
and, ahh!, what a life is ruptured here
as ridges break on martyred cheeks...

Toward death's font, I guide the beast
and purse these tarry lips of stone,
the western wind in the vestry's spin
as framed in death as graveward bone.

*******************************
POET'S EPITAPH
(Influenced by, When the Morning was Waking over the War)

When the rhythm was assailing deep in the pores,
rhyme rapt to its roves and stepped into the wide,
the rocks spurned loose and the steeples fountained wide,
christ locked where it levered on the hearsement of a moan
as the revelled rivers rippled on the pavements of a yaw-,

May it be said that this poet found the power
that set the ancient rifflers on their knaveward way
when the world in gun had no verve nor nerve to shatter
round and down the sidlers of this restituted day,
nor the idlers of the sun any rumour to betray
Dig no more for the veins of ruined runestone.

The ribaldry of music lies raving in the stones,
where, severing, time's arteries are heresay..
O keep rhyme's groans away from madamed hearts;
the hymnals are rising above the sindling grave
and a trillion muses trestle in the poet's pursing hand.

****************************************
****************************************
AWAITING THE IRIS OF THE MULTISONOUS NIGHT
(Influenced by, Waking alone in a Multitude of Loves)

Awaiting the iris of the multisonous night,
the nineveh of adam roared away the sermoned light;
the sun boomed black, the multisided seas
as endless as the summer of the church upon its knees;
and down came eden, as eved in blood as winter,
its roaching veil in serum enshrouding lightning's siege,
the rocks on the rove of the occidental fold
curled and coiled in heaving, as oiled as mary's steed.

No man is macadam and macadam is adam;
so too, the christ of cruising lives on in swerving eyes,
nor any of the streams of the reefed-in dreams
that parry with the grave, may storm the sizzling tides;
and down came eden, as eved in blood as winter,
its croaching veil of silver enshrouding prism cells,
the rocks on the rove of the bell-psalmed rogues
curled and coiled in hearsing, foiled inside the sloes.

*************************************
*********************************
AFTER COMMUNION
(Influenced by, After the Funeral)

After communion, prayer blazes: slaves,
in a spinned shape of spheres, shuffle soundly
down the roed taps of the dregs in the grave,
blinded down the lids, with the wafer snapt,
and the spittled rotor, as wined-in as a nave,
mourning the smacked stacks of the spade that digs
deep, where snakes and desolate dreams drum
in the dark droves of the coffin that sheds dry light
over the raping bone, where the night lies dumbed
by the routed thistle, and the feast of eden glides
into a damsoned scheme of jonquilled whistles
in a room that is room once only;
and there I stand, for this communial sake, atoned
by the shrines of the owls that are red,
with Jesu himself buried in the coal-black shade
of the snivering, mastering lathe,
whose babied churning turns the city's ridgeward,
(although for this city, the ridgeward world is dead).
And I, a prayerbooked rouser, command a place
for the world to serve in service to its virtue;
and the babbles scour, and the rich beginnings power
a cell of knelling in the cipressed face
of god in his pity combed, where the cantering fires
lob along the palls and burn and briar,
that this love of life may sing within the appled
chapel of the non-concocted light
and the whiskered word of those who've tarnished taste
may bless the bended spirit of the fall
that is the holy face. And this glad statue,
with all its wildened bestiaries and skulls,
is carved here from the room that is room once only,
and in a fierce and mourning house lies spilled,
where, lord knows, the world is rent to rights.
I know the loved and soothing humble hands
that crave; I know the heaving bosom of the sun
that sings for awe; I know the moist religion of the lamps
that gutter in their music and grow young
as time allows. For the sad words; the clenched
and runing bells of thunder; the glad spurs
that sculpt these frozen verses, move the stone:
these shroud-clapt, marble muses, this ensign
storms now forever where the priesthoods drome
and strut god's love into a world of paradigm.

***********************************
GOD, IN HIS BOOMING STATION by jim bellamy
(an extract)

i
God, in his booming station, threads the devil;
the babbles of the mind lay waste to eagled heirs.
Setting no law to the war of hero's revel,
serried in the graves of knowing, crime impairs.
Rushed in the seed of the word outside all loving,
love, in her trendless burning, pinions hate;
the babbles of the mind lay waste to hero's peril.
Setting no law to war, the way is rape.
Green in the fuse of herod's serial murder,
dark as the sun, the moon proclaims her spiel.
Slashed in the thigh-wide crater of red purdah,
serried in the graves of choosing, heaven's wheel,
rent in the vinegar shadow of breath's bruising,
spired by the seas of the all-too-grateful dead,
man in macadam spoils the roads with rusing,
the rose in the rogue of fearing, craned at head.
God, in his booming station, treads the ocean;
the babbles of the mind lay waste to eagled spheres.
Setting no law to the wards inside emotion,
serried in the graves of growing, crime endears.
Flashed in the crash of the arbour outside hearing,
christ, in his oaken ship, inflames the veil;
the biblers in the brain shear down to zero.
Man in macadam, rucked, rips out the grail.

ii
Love, no peaceful mourner,
shended in the ark of truth,
shapes the oat inside the mortar.
Man to man is light uncouth.
Love, no peaceful maker,
shended in the ark of blood,
shapes the oat inside the water.
Man to man is bust in bud.
Love, no peaceful splendour,
shended in the ark of rain,
shapes the oat inside the render.
Man to man is bust in brain.
Love, no peaceful suitor,
shended in the arkless east,
shapes the oat inside the lover.
Man to man is hero's beast.

iii
God, in his booming station, forges nowhere;
babbling in the brine,
each wheated hill of wisdom comes to none;
the turning mill of christ,
each wheated will of fusion on the run,
endless as love's heist,
wharves away the seas to prove the sun.
God, in his booming station, forges nero;
bibling in the breath,
each wheated word of wisdom purges round;
the turning baptised dream,
each wheated wind of fission run aground,
endless as a scream,
wharves away the seas to prove its sound.
The wicked wish of kisses in the mansion,
bridling at the stone,
prove time as cruel and coiled as hero's fold;
the storming marrow's fist,
each wasping curve of scientific ransome,
bridling at the bone,
prove seas in sensate reeling, curled as gold.

iv
No man is endless;
endless as the rings of fire.
No man is endless;
endless as the crowns of wire.
No man is endless;
endless as the springs of burning.
No man is endless.
Man to man is razed in yearning.

v
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the seas.
The hand that rends the stable
shapes the nave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shends away the bibled trees.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the trees.
The hand that rends the stable
blackens heaven's fable.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shends away the bibled siege.
God, in his booming station,
shapes away the nation.
God, in his booming station,
shaves away the number.
God, in his booming station,
shapes away the nation.
God, in his booming station,
staves away the thunder.

vi
The lordless god of summer breaks the shoot;
the bibling rooks of winter steal away.
No man upon the town
may stave away the sound
of the lordless god of autumn's searing way.
The lordless god of hearing breaks the shoot;
the bibling rooks of spearing storm the grave.
No man upon the town
may stave away the sound
of the lordless god of fearing's slaughtered nave.
The winnowed staves of seeing music under
each symphony of rape-becoming humour.
No man upon the town
may stave away the ground
of the lord above the chapel's appled rumour.
The lordless god of summer breaks the shoot;
the bibling rooks of winter steal away.
No man inside a mound
may stave away the drowned,
nor any oceaned dreamer save the day.

vii
The code that from the mortar shapes a dime
binds death to crime;
that serries with the graves of endless nothing,
binds to loving;
and ocean men who spire against the soul,
take endless role,
as real and red within as herod's coming.
The wax that from the halo sears to truth
must stream uncouth;
that serries with the graves of Mnethna's saunter,
binds to slaughter;
and endless ocean men who choose to cry
destroy the sky,
as real and red within as hero's daughter.
The rose that on the thral cleaves theft to call,
binds death to all;
that jacks the siren soul aside from water,
shears manslaughter;
and ocean men who know no female light,
rave from the night,
their winter follies, cold as hero's shoulder.
The cock that maims the tides with clocking ruin,
binds to sueing;
that whacks away the pulse of veinward number,
sears to thunder;
and all the waves of ocean-sealing theft
must sear the breath,
as real and red within as hero's slumber.

viii
God, in his booming station, threads the devil;
the babbling wheys of mary know no source.
No rended stave of dreams is served to Babel,
as man in macadam speaks with endless force.
Five fingers come to those who know no prison;
five fingers, red at soul and strangling under.
God, in his booming station, threads the devil;
the babbling wheys of mary, green as thunder.
God, in his booming station, summons nowhere;
the biblers in the tower have sons to kill.
No truth is known to men who travel sun-where.
As much as man is tarry, so too must petra thrill;
and children in the course of jonah's sinking,
wealed in loving, flash the heart with moans.
God, in his booming station, threads all thinking;
the biblers in the tower, as rent as bones.

ix
The lord, in his inchoate revel, builds the temple;
forged from molten manacles, the icy seas
lay mad waste to the devil:
with the rapes of this glib world dunged in a bubble,
half god and half mad angel
here conceive.
Received by the wombs of the world, the Word co-mettles:
lighted by the spindles of the old
that shirk within a seminary's troubles,
thread to thread, the casuistry unravels;
and raven as the man who treads the pedal,
creation here extols.
This is the curtain on the coffin's signals:
the satyred nature of this phantomed world
forces through the fusions in an anvil:
down rinking leaves, the loots of vision bevel;
and, as mortal as a martyr's medal,
flashes like glad gold.
God's tendril treads the trees and greets the tunnels;
no lud of war is 'His' to see appeased;
down founted footfalls flow the caning muscles
of rectored waste: the Lord works like a runnel:
and, in frames of state, the falcon pummels
and hatchets like a seed.
Inchoate heaven reigning, here's God's tendril
voyages the cockward streams of darksome day:
finding the waters rhinal and purportal,
on the destructive level, time is myrtled
and, raining on a gavel, chains to metal
each raider of the grave.

x
The love of light betrays the summer's tinkers;
deep in the grave,
each siren whirls away the sun;
the caul of the cruise inside the temple's thinkers,
serried down to zero,
weals aside the golden one.
The hearse of the moon betrays the summer's brothers;
deep in the grave,
each seal of searing rages on;
the maul of the cruise in the temple's underfakirs,
serried down to zero,
weals aside the shaman's drum.
No christ nor creator betrays the winter's number;
deep in the grave,
the saul of saving sears to nil;
the thral of the noose around the decks of thunder,
serried down to zero,
weals away the sinner's thrill.
This lordless life is dark as dreamward drifting;
deep in the grave,
as endless as the sires of death,
as much as man and child must ravage heaven's shifting,
serried down to zero,
the word of god is herod's theft.
Hero's fuse can only come to naveward burning;
deep in the grave,
the oils of lightning summon time;
the moll at the throat must suck the marrow's oozing;
serried down to zero,
the word of god is crime.

xi
Time climbs its rented miracle;
ten times the hedons, time is spined and slaved;
cornered by the mounted fields that strangle,
clockhands seek and find the graved:
the flailing seaman swims inside its stubble;
time itself lies mounted on the rocks;
a feral choir of weathers sprees and cudgels;
time and tide detain and storm the locks.
Death, the incidental, splits god's tendril;
the cadaver on its handle squints on high;
the skyroad to the temple splits the mental;
and now the arteries of rumour rise:
turning a rectal face against the menial,
here the eagled armies pace and pare;
death itself lies spurnt and occidental;
spurned and spurning by, time's riders flare.
But christ is hared and haloed! in the sides
of seasoned seas and samsoned slicks of light,
sweetly drive the diver's cells of fusing
that bring the living being from out the night;
and, clapped in water like a ruckling,
strung from harpsichords and haling lochs,
light astrides the breeders of the tearing
and sucks away the bosoms of the rocks.

xii
Loss, leagued under, strips the seven seas.
Life, leagued over, strips the light of breath.
Loss, leagued under, strips the seven seas.
Life, leagued over, rips apart the holy death.
Loss, leagued under, strips away the heroes
of the cortal christ in the transept's roar.
Life, leagued over, strips away its haloes,
shendless as the tides in the tithes of war.
Loss, leagued, delves the sun for nero.
Light, leagued, delves the moon for kith.
Christ, leagued, delves the womb for zero.
Life, leagued, delves the tomb for pith.

xiii
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave,
that ties lynched talons
to the fathering trees,
does down all breath, as the templers rave.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the seas.
Though the trees be planed and spumed at birth,
though the angels as they groove
compose a parried breeze,
high with the hand that runnels through the earth,
the bastard heraldic murders as she weaves;
and where the tendant manna rises from its flirt
and sharpens the harp;
where haloed matter seethes,
cruel come the crones of beast and tare and wort;
cruel come the farriers of the cindered seed.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave,
that ties lynched talons
to the fathering trees,
does down all breath as the templers rave.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the seas.

xiv
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.
In the mangled daisy, inside the peal of bells,
up where martyrs bury the mortars of a spell;
in the mangled daisy, inside the peal of bells,
beside the routed lady, the proctorates swell.
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.
God is neither locum nor primal convertor.
Christ is neither primate nor ignoble deed.
Gabriel is neither paragon nor deserter.
Time and tide alike dwell darkly in the seed.
Tendril or temple, the hallowers blow out.
Man in manna parish, the sentinels heave.
Plashed in the stores of harvest and drought,
round the crossing splinter, the templers speed.

xv
The halo's course is razed: the mystic tantrum
that drives the glowering rocks
is here perfused:
the rot that sires the clock, the heroed ransome,
is here destroyed, the fickle caste removed.
The halo's course lies buried in a mountain:
who comes to die
lies split by life to chime:
the anger drummed and drunk on cryptic stanchions
here rocks the roasting angels as they climb.
The lips of speech do no retell their summons:
love's gibbet, slain,
hangs wryly from the trees:
the force that makes the temples shend their sermons
lies dumbed and drained of all its spended seed.
The time that trips immortal and purportal
here sifts the docks of crime
into an eyes that pleas:
the rise of crime into a world aortal
here lies staved
and written on the trees.

xvi
God comes! In undead waters, angels wingle;
come unto seastruck towers, the furies fold;
the flight of spatial mortar girds its simples;
the tendrils of the godhead spear and mould.
Within the sun god, sphered, the pointed ferrule,
bright and brassy, blasts apart the grave;
star set for multicolour, jacob's angle
snips the sex of jonah and is saved.
Smoke in shippen hills and oaken valleys,
where the eagle's eyrie steers and rocks,
strides the holy tendril and its galleys;
where the gods are brazen, nature knocks.
One by one, the slash of vision chaffers;
in the sin green fables of the mind,
manstrung ancthers reach for holy masters;
in the stoving bone, the templers grind.
Love, like words on water, must fade gladly,
yet the heavens write against the tides.
Love and death assail on seas of parity;
death and love shall beat the holy ides.

xvii
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
Ten skulled fingers
stub the humours down.
Death is the tomb of money and its bringers.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the town.
In the sallow spheres of bird and angel;
where the parson crows
and the holy boast conceives,
death is the tomb of money as it glows.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the seas.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The hand that suffers christ
is the pall bay in the coves.
Death is the tomb that snaps alive the knife.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes the rose.
The hand, the hand that does down death
parries and marries
to the infant in the deed;
death is the rumour that murders as it carries.
The hand that rocks the cradle rapes all need.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The hand that rocks the cradle
shapes the angled seas.
The hand that rocks the cradle shapes the grave.
The sun that is young lies buried in the weeds.

xviii
God, in his booming station, knows no ending,
neither shall the templers spiel for none.
God, in his booming station, knows no rending,
neither do the curves of christ ennumb.
God, as friendless as the spheres of purdah,
wharve away the seas to prove their theft.
God, in his booming station, suckles murder,
endless as the foils of hero's weft.
God, as friendless as the tears of motion,
wharve away the seas to suffer light.
God, in his booming station, nations under,
breaks the moon to prove the endless night.
Either side of space is canan's wording;
hence the heart has hills no child may climb.
God, as friendless as the spheres in moving,
wharve away the seas to suffer time.
God is neither angel nor primal convertor,
neither is the womb as real as it becomes.
Frozen in the seal of the menstrual daughter,
God, in his booming station, suffers none.
Either side of space is Canan's worship;
hence the heart has rills no child may swim.
God, as endless as the tides of wordship,
frozen in the moon, is veiled as mother sin.

...

copyright jdb 2002.

..

IF THE LORD BE FICKLE by jim bellamy
(Influenced by, If I were Tickled by the Rub of Love)

If the lord be fickle as a light of love,
as a brooking tide, his soul should be his moan,
or to break down the weathers, to rape the shrouded sea,
if the lord be fickle, then the multisided seed
would be mine, and the laughter of the endless coal
would trip. For I do not fear the temples in the blood
nor the stippler in the trickle of the multisonous bud
nor any of the pleasures that babies call their own.

Shall the word be scentral, knell the bells,
as the frock in the mind bludgeons down on buttered bread.
If the lord be fickle as the racketing spine,
then what for the angels in the raping severed head?
this winch of a man must breathe adown the ladies
and the word that is mazy be damselled into christ,
just like the crucifix of love.

Shall the word be forfeit, shrill the children
that splatter in the cauls of their birthdayed brine,
for I would not care for the music in a mill
nor the multisoldered gism in a corn-curative crime;
neither should I try to hearse the summer forwards
nor ravel with the valleys of a dawn-depletive dream,
for I could not care for the galleys of the ill,
if the lord, if the lord be fickle as a scream.

And if I were as fickle as the lord hisself
who swipes away the angels as they climb,
no rumour should swathe me, nor ratcheting maim me,
nor the gaggling cretins of my history rhyme;
here is the caste of the kraken underglass:
if I were as fickle, no law should be my own,
nor stage of regal vermin come to claim me.

And that is the lord, the only lord who's fickle.
The ancthers of the she-bird swinge along the sex
from dawn-down to shun-rise, as the interfascist womb
can never please the lover as dead hearts vex,
nor when the seas find beauty in the weeds
of soldiers who have fought for no real cause
shall the godhead fly: towards the coloured sky,
man in manna parish is the only fickle clause.

**********************************
*******************

BEHOLD THESE ANCIENT MINUTES
(Influenced by, Hold Hard These Ancient Minutes)

Behold these ancient minutes in the cruising mouth,
under the scythes and skeins on the heartless hill;
as the mean moon rides and spins alike to doubt,
crime, a mean derider, hereby spills
over and over the vaults of molten reason,
driving forth death's season like a folly.

Crime, your glass is drummer, and drums that spool
by vein and harried winter, ply the moment forwards;
crime's pools hold hard now, sired by widow rule:
in the deadened greenwood, burning like a drill,
time and rival summer raise their english brollies,
each word of hero christ, coiling down to ruin.

And now the spheres of Israel, on chiming ground,
summon up the seahorns in sad debt,
over the faithful fates of crimeward sound,
snivering their clocks along the wet;
curdling rock-spumes, thrumming, red as eagles,
wrack and warp like sickness in a vice.

Downward and benumbing, then, the years,
on scarlet gears, enroach and ream the skies;
crime, a rider sidling, towards the east of fear,
boulders like a siren, cruel as herod's eyes;
macadamic masons, more tarry than their shadows,
splice the coronet of time, broken as the spheres.

As much as man must love to reap away the doves,
each grave of english christ must ferry down to zero.

***********************************
*******************************
RHYME BREAKS WHERE RHYTHM SUNDERS

Rhyme breaks where rhythm sunders;
where poetry assigns, the muse that breaks apart
rifles through its numbers;
and, where the meter looks out upon the heart,
the stanzas of the soul
rove the versing detail of root and fang and spark.

An anvil in the spine
exterminates the siege of verb and glowering code;
where the poets climb,
the wrangled suit of pages slams the bardic clothes,
stealthy as a pick;
where no bard stirs, the anvil rams and roves.

Death stares beyond the rhymes;
from arctic wit to helm of skull and shendless bone,
the deadly heirs must chime;
no sufferer of the heavens, the spheres of gyring stone
contract and rout,
and make the molten muses whack and smack and groan.

Fright is the poet's sound:

like moonstones grinding, the summits of a prayer
break the bardic bounds:
where no graft rails, the tracts of ice and flare
blast the lips and eyes;

the regimen of reading cracks alike to ploughshares.

Rhyme breaks along its tomes:
on nibs of ash and altar, the poet's evil spires;
when music scars and foams,
the pedals in the pan-pipes spiral through the brain,
and breath thumps like an idol;

beneath the crypts of stasis, the poet's world is fire.

*************************************
A VISION IN THE FISSION OF THE HAND
(Influenced by, A Process in the Weather of the Heart)

A vision in the fission of the hand
constrains and burns; that blasts and parries
surges forth into the furling womb
A vision in the fission of the land
merges with the nerves; that rakes and spumes,
tarries with the demons in the cherry

A vision in the magma writhes and spurns
the signatures of grave and knaveward moans;
a vision in the earth ordains and marries
A vision in the fusion of the lathe
martyrs and suffuses; time and sand
snip the seedward hero like a slave

A vision in the rivers of a man
sires the smegma forwards; time and lave
smash the cruise of ligron, tare and lamb.
A vision in the fusion of the heart
chaps and splits; the treasons in the ark
ram and lam the passion play in moving

A vision in the fission of the old
rapes the anvil down; that wracks and ruins
rends the veinous bulb from cot to cold.
An angel in the fusions of the dark
spires and burns; rhyme and rhythm bark;

and the world spins on against its poems?

.

Copyright JDB 1997..

*******************************
******************************
FROM POETRY'S BEGINNINGS
(Influenced by, From Love's first fever to her Plague)

From poetry's beginnings to her second-coming,
from the first and sallow silence of the hallowed womb,
from the revolution to the rifling drumming,
the rubric of a rhythm and the siren in the moon,
when no drought moiled in the treasons of a river,
all rhyme was strummed, one strum-aspiring spume,
and birth and death were as one stabbed humming,
the sun and earth together in one bright flume.

From poetry's beginnings to her second-coming,
from the spired cavern of the ravine under prayer,
and to the reckonings of rhyme's seamed coven,
from the hearsay of the heart, this lackadazing flare,
and to the first verb of the sun beneath the ocean,
the clavicle was spread, the backbone blared,
the sequence in the lung, as one devolving banging;
And as poetry was fellowed, reef and sheet were haloed,
the snowing spires, the humours and masonries gunned,
and the mallowed hand, lit and tressed along the tallows,
and the heirs of israel, that once had burned and bombed,
shone in the tears of a spherical collusion,
cantered and cauled in the seasons of a sum,
and mellow were the heels of the hillside brethrens,
green and mean as heroes and maternally spun
as the cedars in the cipress-razing haloes.

And from the ascension of the very first poem
from stammerer to ravager, from century to choir,
into the fires of the mills and hills of zion,
from the pyre to the rivet, the signal signs of fire
soared and ignited, and the siring lions
in the spiritual magma, set work the city roads
of manna-man and trumpet, seer and singeing parrot

As poetry lay mallowed, the birds in heaven blew.

..

Copyright JDB 1997.

..

HOW SHALL THIS POET?
(Influenced by, Dylan Thomas' 'How shall my Animal'.)

How shall this poet
whose drunken larks lie raped where caverns cull,
medium of petals and girlish bells,
suffuse his buried searings with the life
that pokes and pelters in the estranging hull,
who must be hardy and precocious,
hunkered as a hammering shell, railed as a nail,
warring, winding, wending
his way like a weathered snail,
with the hatchets in his haloes
rendering and never-ending?

How shall this poet dramatise,
towards whose searing goes the midnight hail
that helters in the teeters of a rhyme,
a mute and clawing monger in the pale
grave, with nib-ends drawn and drowned
and the light of his labour lost
and the quick, cruel angles of his crown
bursting through the dread and draining seas,
the horseheads spurning purple, and the round
propulsion of the devil
rambling into the hovels of the ground?

Mastodon or hellhound?..

the leapt waves of the tides, whose wranglings rock,
whose meteoric rise into a sound
slides sadly, hereby knock,
as time, with quivering brain, runs out the muse,
tongue in tare, tare in tithes,
wherefrom the anvilled angels sput and bruise
and scrape along a sentinel,
crashed and crocked, with an oven for an eye
and an oval ovum for a metal monocle
that shatters as it spries.

Shrapnelled, sirened, sea-horned,
blackened, bricked on a bull-bone;
sly as a gizzard, here the poet strums
and cocks a blizzard at the moving of the stone,
with a carved word for his clang and a crumb
coasting for his christened, topering hum,
saint and sonshine shiring, and the world
turning about upon its end, where,
snide-shorn, sabred, shoe-horned, cabred,
down the maddest hill comes the maddest flock,
fire and brimstone braving, and the stunned
total of the mad-man, apocalypsed and shot.
....

Copyright JDB 1997.

...
WHEN THE LORD WAS YOUNG
(after Dylan Thomas's Fern Hill)

When the lord was young and carpentered by drums
Around the herded rungs of the jacobed stair of dreams
And the angels flew ferociously
God took his cherubim
And scaled them with his seraphim
And brassy as the trees then was a world inside the seas
And when the seared commander of heaven caught alight
Time and its daughter went down the mean water
Along the keen rivers and on into the night.

And when the Lord was borne afar, and dimpled by the stars
And the sprawlings of the chapels as they boomed
In the velveteen rain that lived inside the vein
Of the succouring shadows of the blooming light
Green and sylvan, the word was spumed and molten
And sang forever in the cities of the bright
And feathered foxies of the towns
That span, as the pedals on the spinneys burned.

Heavenward and strong, the sun was golden in its throng
The angelus piled high and the harps and trumpets blaring
And praying in the wind
That was soulful and endearing
And time lay down to see the buried stars
As they shone on the keeps of the shepherds fast asleep
With love’s moonstones flaring and the blessed cattle raining
And the heartstrings of Easter
Flashing with the swains.

And then to intake the seasons stirred awake
And the runes like a womb veering from the skies
It was in every way an Eden to behold
With the oats and grapes colliding and the vineyards grinding
And the sunrise of the dead always rising
And it must have been no more than a minute’s yore
In the prehistoric world that rent the first god’s pearls
Away from the tombs and their spire-stormed looms
And on into the manic meadows of the mind.

And knelled amongst bells in their presidential cells
That scuttered in their skippings like an evening on a hill
In the wafers and the wines
Of the winding whorls of time
God’s kisses snared and careered down the stairs
Of Jacob, and nothing could be shattered or contained
Nor any bird of violence be detained into the license
Of the word, as god’s children
Bellowed in their joyfulness too deep.

And nobody, not a thing, could sour the earth of springs
That fallowed in the ardours of the heavens and their spies
And the mad moon moved
Like a stone upon the water
And to wake forever and to hear the bells of pleasure
And the coiling curls of wisdom unravelling far away
Oh yes, when the Lord was new to his word
And his flittering apostles siblings in their speech
Rhyme and her brides lay regal in the tides, roaring replete.

...

Copyright JDB 1997.

..

AH, I SEE THESE SENSATE CHILDREN (after Dylan Thomas)

i
Ah, I see these sensate children, in their wiles,
Split up the brain's entombed pleasures,
Devote night and day with a sparrow's thumbs
And here, in its seas, in slaughtered shades,
Of sun and moon, the penis taunts denial.
I see, from boys, that sex shall come to nothing
And raid, by speed, the madness of the soul
Here, inside the heart, the la-de-dah pulse
Of light and love bursts the romantic throat
Ahh, the course of summer drifts and pines.

ii
Yet seasons must be challenged or totter
against a perm-led quarter
where, shunt by death, we ring death's scar.
Here, in the night, the phallus is buried
And blow-jobs pulled from the doctor's wee.
We are the boys who summon, with cherries
deaths, from a sexless woman
A muscling lust, from brothers inside camp,
from the flair-eyed damp, we smote a sisters' tombs,
From devious wombs, we shaft love's cherries.

iii
I seize you boys from zygotic ruins
As Man, in his swagger, lies barren
Sex, chock-filled, stands inside its sleave.
I am the man your father was
We are the sons of spermicidal linen.

?!!!

Copyright JDB 1999.

..

THIS I KNOW (after Dylan Thomas)

...

IN SCARLET BEDLAM (after Dylan Thomas)