Let lights be snuffed out;
He comforts us with darkness.
Let truth shout itself hoarse;
He reveals to us mysteries.
Let armies march against us;
He buries us beneath secrets.
Let armies hunt our footprints;
He has already carried us away.
Let the dead mourn for the dead;
He draws all our paths to life.
Let Annwn reach across the river;
He is fire to her fingertips.
Let your anger be set against me,
Let your fear smoulder like an offering,
Let your sword shake in your hand;
In mine He dwells, covered in stale blood.
‘This is the end, the end!’ you cry,
but know I better than to take
ends for mistaken beginnings
–to trade cliffs for plateus,
or great, white fields:
waterfalls for rivers flooding
the crop-reaver’s plain.
No, no ends nor beginnings,
no cliffs over any abyss,
no dusty epilogues or aftermaths
for victor’s heels to rest upon
–all medians in masquerade;
all things pass to others
in grim parade, marching,
torn bit from bit by Time:
a line of arrows to breach
without breath the skin of the earth.
No cliffs nor walls nor points of egress;
know we better than to take arrows
for mistaken shrines, mistaken rest.
‘Here rests beneath the earth
— In the womb of the ground
The bones of my cheer,
The weight of my anxiety,
The breath of my love;
A sacrifice to myself.
Here rests between markers
— Between shores of the Leathe
A shrine to faithful puppets,
Two ruins in one body,
The method of my escape.
Not room enough in the dark,
So I left her here alone;
May she rest alone in peace.’
The bitter arrival of another dawn,
Merciful as sand between teeth,
Coarse guest, open-mouthed, agahst
At my re-occurring
On the cold floor (still here, still
Here, not yet been brushed aside)
In the dark
— Not dark enough.
Not long enough (the line)
Though infinite, stretched between
I and thou,
Not room enough in the dark
For us both, not weight enough;
With words we brought mountains down.
So gentle, the knife
In the dark; not the hammer of Suns.
They’d call my art a mess
— A vulgar lie! No one asked,
Not once, my intent. Tripe of spirits
Older than I and more mad. Spirits:
The words are not a mess, but a
Gentle finger through the mind to
Make a hole, to watch it bleed,
To know it dead.
To come out whole on the other side.
Thou shall yet see.
What is man but a chest of bone, a jar of flesh?
Within him is sewn in-turned ears, hot with
Interest, tuned only thus: to that which unto
Him is but already known. What can he learn,
Man is a beast who, mocking wisdom, daily
Means to make a feast of his own paws, declaring
Them delicious. He gorges himself on his own
Breath, and exhales insult which to he tastes
Sweet upon his rancid tongue. What can he see,
Only that which he places before him. His eyes
Will whore his fetid mind, are lamps themselves
To shine illusions on the face of an abyss;
He knows of life what sleepers know of dreams;
He knows of truth what lushes know of drink.
What is man but a feast unto himself! What
Fruit can he have? He is a vine who roots
In his own leaves, thus withers, thus dies,
Is thus blown away like dust.