Gospels of the Night

Look.

How light unfolds over our tongue.
How your tongue is my tongue.
How language gives birth to winds.

Always. It always rains when I’m born.

I. Belligerent. Limerent. Languid. Indolent.

If you cut me open you will find a sun. Capture it, rupture it, fritter it. Gather the pieces. Unite them, I am here. Untie them, I am everywhere. A universe of suns. A sum of verses. Son of verses? Reverses, sun verses. Me versus the sun. Nursing the sun. A version of the sun. Adversary of light. Seldom, light itself; immaculate when.

Always. It always quiets when you’re born.

You. Luminary. Illusionary. Illusive. Elusive.

With the face of a Saint. My Madonna. The Sunmother. Intricate lover, locked in words. Words worlds. Culminating in a room. Planting in the desert. Gardener of the subtle unknown. Let me be the ground. And the desert. And the Earth, so that you have no place else to go. How long? A night. Eternity. Until the sudden holocaust of morning. The anaphylactic shock of my gaze. The catechism of rain on my window. Undeterred, a narrative of weather on its own. Whether read or water-transparent. Until … silence. Your mouth’s ellipses collapsing. Lapsing. The lapse of your lips. Friction ridges, fiction bridges

sometimes

the gaps between
us and words

I cross
and every step I take is a step I take towards you.

*

Listen.

The stones sing.
The birds cry.
Brides crying.

Songs of bridal ceremony.
Matrimony of every thing unsaid.

Dead. Bed. It is me and Death on the bed. Lying next to each other. Brothers. We don’t talk. Nothing to be said in this familial. Between familiars. Not for long. We stretch. We estrange. Soon he leaves me, I am the only body in the room. Room inverted, moor. The seams of my room tear open. It makes fast to the street. Vomits me out. Gives birth to me or abandons me. On the street, the city, the world. Around the earth, like an o. Round. Finite. Liminal. Minimal, like my room. I am the room. And the moor. And the morning, that comes afterwards. It is me on the bed. Mourning. He will come back. He can’t do without me. Death, that is, and you–

that look a lot like him.

I am not afraid.

*

Tonight I am afraid. Of raid. The world will raid me: read me, red me, rape me. Red as a grape. It will leave me. In the grips of dread. Slave to fear.

Tonight I am slaving. Salving is only an inversion away. I have to turn the world around. The word around. Put the l after the a. Sort out the alphabet. Solve the alphabet. Salve the alphabet. Alphabet the salvation. A salvation. Once I achieve that, I am solved, salved, saved. As long as the l follows the a.

Alpha. Aleph. To my allay. Allay. Again, the echoes: l, a. Trust the letters. Not the sounds. Allay. A lay. A lyric. Alyric. Alaric. Invading phonetics. Conquering sounds. Trust the letters. The alphabet. Not the Latin alphabet and its disarray. L, a. Change it round. A, l. Altin alphabet. Turkish gold. Golden alphabet.

Alaric, by inversion in Latin: alacri. Alacer. Root of alacrity. Cry it. A, l and acrity. On the edge of alacrity. Not the right edge. Full stop there. The right edge is the left edge. Ledge, to stand on.

There: al. l resembles 1. First the letters, then the numbers. Always. A1 way. The longest road. We drive on the left. On the left of alacrity. There? A space, a breath, a rest. Abreast. A, b, and the rest.

Rest on me, I have sorted the alphabet, I am safe.

*

Safe?

Whose face is safe, nowadays?

A parade of faces. Charade of faces. Façade of races. Everything shared, deep down. Only faces change. Facing change, faces unchanged. Unchained, uncaged, unmasked. My face, your face. Face me, and you’re looking at yourself. My face, a safe of faces. You’re safe, safe on my face. Favourite feature of mine. I hide you in the lines of my face. Visible. On the surface. My surface. You’re a line on my face. Safe in my lines. My lines the lineaments. Linear ligaments, imperceptive. In perspective. When I return, they’re carved. Craved. Crevices of masonry fragile. Agile. My touch is never tactile. Tactile things fail. Fall. Break. Like the floor breaking under great weight. Tiles, broken lines. Micro-expressions of the pavement. Where we walk, the floor is intact. Syntactic. Tactile tactic. Tact in tiles. A different kind of touch. Tactile lines. When we touch, we align. Aline. A line. One line –

*

Touch.

In the manner of Kandinsky’s brushing.
Like the banner of the sky blushing.
An environment tactile, subtlety                 unleashed.

Love me.

Of course, the oldest demand. Off course, the only in hand.

At hand. I am my hands. Kiss me, Hardy? Hardly. Love me handy.

Me. Melic. Metallic. Mellific. Mellifluous? Melliferous, or peripheral to your vision. Melodical, out of sight. Melting, inside. Mellowing, yellowing, bellowing. Billowing. Like the wind in the willows. Willowing. Will owing. Owning. Awning. Cover me or discover me.

Own me. Or disown me. There’s owing in disowning.

Me. Multifarious, nefarious, of clouds. Of the Nephilim and an apostate. Fallen, and bound, and precarious. Adjectival. Pronounced. Announced. Denounced. Utterance adored. Wear me on your lips. On the M and u of your lips. Personal calligraphy. Adored, adorned.

*

Image adorned. Religion unaged. A weather infinite, a season invincible
you are.

Rummage, scrimmage,
adore me.

Me. The melter. The meter. Moulding words. A meld of words. Careful of your words, they might become worlds for others to live in. Your words to me are like the wind. They leave.

Live me.

Me. Occasionally, melancholic. Alcoholic, anabolic, agoraphobic. Bic, as a pen. Metabolic, parabolic, workaholic. Christ over the desk. Acrylic, in your hands umbilic. Symbolic? Systolic, psychotic, sibyllic. Schizophrenic, photophilic, idyllic.

Messianic. In panic. Mechanic. Transoceanic. Magellanic. Volcanic. Urbanic. Galvanic. Manic. Frantic.

In italics.

A relic of light.

Eloquent night.

Toying with madness. Nevertheless.

*

Like my hands that don’t touch. Like your poems in the night.

My poems in the night.

Gospels of the night. Night spells. Spelling the night. Selling the night. The profit of prophets. Spending, spendthrift the night. Nights that go loose and you lose them, nights runaway horses. Neighing nights. Night mares. Mare nights, bare nights. Before me, naked the night. You, the night. And I the collector, the gatherer, gardener. Collecting the night. Gathering the night. Garden the night. Guarding the night. In a night collective. Night gathering. Gathering night. Weighing the night. With instruments only I devise. Measuring, calculating, regulating the night. Calibrating the night. Removing myself, it becomes light. Weighing the light. Spelling the light. Spending, spendthrift the light. Lighting the night. Nighting the light. Nightingales. Night in gales. Ninety knots and above. Word knots. Neighing light. Light neighing, lightning. Lighting.

You. Alight. A light.

My night light. Poetic company. Even in absence.

My light night. Accompanying poetics. Even, in essence.

You, in my late nights.

My light and my night. Evening in incense. Incendiary of religion. Mercenary of limerence. Ascendance of fever. Tender delirium and divine inspiration. Before expiration, before dawn. Undawn. Undone. Panoply of the night. Flight.

You.

Gospel of the night.

Spelling you out.
Spelling you in.

I spell you dearly.


gospels of the night

Kandinsky – Circles in a Circle