(To Daniela Denby-Ashe)

The normal vermin’s waiting to arrive

On Vegetable Station

Bound for the last train to Dresden.


The bearable angelus

Kicking in windows

In shoes of disturbance:

Tess of the Firmament

Talking ontelephones

Strung out in forbidden basements.

   Tracts of primeval apartments

Slowly returning

To absolutejungle;

Primitive doorstep

Locked in the soles of my shoes;

Deep in the heartland

Of Thomas’s pasture,

Where Virgil contemplates

Sensible footwear,

Crafted from batteries;

Slightly distorted in air.

   Eleanor’s borstal

In a land of pure oxygen;

Sand and oscilloscopes

Start to unravel

Under the floorboards

Where Uncle Amand

Feeds upon dishwashers

(Something to contemplate

(Each time I wander

(To where my office

(Is totally normal –

(My balconies structured

(From strands of clematis.):

I sing from the workshop

Of soft manufacture,

Each time I monitor,

Withsome persistence,

Light-life in waterways

Where my intended

Suddenly got up to dance.

The bookshop of Poverty

Started to sell me

Volumes of candle- light

Selflessly shown to the homeless.

  I often emoted,

And you agreed

That oracles fall in the season

Of Tonto’s conversion

To states of the Cross:

I lift up the stones of your quarry

To find that beneath them live wonderful gnomes

Illegally forging a passport.

Washrooms of borage

In which I investigate

States of disease,

Caught in the cross-strokes

Of accurate armies

Who fall to their Alamo

Trying to cope

With the pieces of paper

That endlessly generate

Out of the window

Which stands in the lodestone

Of Mulciber’s bannister.

So to the stars…

Sarah’s in bed with you

Some of the time.

Slight shiver breathing.

Her eyes are incredible

Like soft pools of starlight

Sensed in the morning of time.

I tried to envelop you

Under the carpet

With bosons I think about

From moment to moment;

At least when I’m walking

Down permanent lanes

That lead to the glory

Of Harlequin’s kitchen:

Electrons in Hungerford Bridge

Start to disintegrate,

Leaving commuters

To steadily sink

In tides of dense traffic.

Mendicants put on

The clothes of confusion

Endlessly worn

By managers structured from cardboard.

Ross Chapman
[ NEXT ]

[Art] [Poetry] [Fiction] [Essays] [Music] [Members] [Links] [Arts Calendars] [History] [Join] [Services]

©All text is copyrighted and may be reproduced only with the express permission of the artist, all profits from reprint, transmission, etc., are the property of the author. Thank you....