Poeme de Jim Bellamy

Photo credit Teodora Cosman

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(Influenced by Dylan Thomas’s ‘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(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. 

ONCE BENEATH A SPINE(Influenced by Dylan Thomas’ ‘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.

HOW SHALL THIS POET (after Dylan Thomas’s ‘How Shall This 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..all the very best.
wishes,
jim bellamy
On Tuesday, 19 October 2021, 11:29:42 BST, Jimmy Bellamy <bellamy.jimmy@yahoo.co.uk> wrote:

multifoliate thanks
jim.
On Tuesday, 19 October 2021, 03:20:47 BST, Ioana Cosma <c_ioana05@yahoo.com> wrote:

Sure thing! These are amazing poems! You are such an outstanding poet, Jim!My best,
Ioana
Pe luni, 18 octombrie 2021, 18:48:28 EEST, Jimmy Bellamy <bellamy.jimmy@yahoo.co.uk> a scris:

hi there.     more work here for publishing?

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(Influenced by Dylan Thomas’s ‘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(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. 

ONCE BENEATH A SPINE(Influenced by Dylan Thomas’ ‘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.

HOW SHALL THIS POET (after Dylan Thomas’s ‘How Shall This 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.