Monday, August 17, 2015

Hoofbeats on the shingle of
The naked shore, the ocean of
Faith drawn back and exposing
The bare stone and sharp-edged
Not quite smoothed rocks and
Nothing like the soft sands of
Sweeter southern climes their
Beating waves wearing down the
Doubts and fears of harsher
Shores salt-stained and sere
Dead salt-marsh stalks jutting
Up over poisoned slopes at
War with its waters and the
Unforgiving sogged soil

The sixteen piston-head
Shoe-strikes thundering across
Hard-pebbled beaches not
Worthy of the name, the
Tide of prophesy driven forth
By that vexed nightmare
Awakened from a stony sleep
By a rocking cradle and the
Hand of a rough beast, her
Hour come round at last
Not to slouch, nor to roar
Nor to bathe in the blood
Of the sinners and the saints
Nor any horror of a dreaming
Asiatic visionary, poisoned by
Essene imaginings and Greek
Linguistics and the
Apocalyptic aspirations of
Those who would see the
Curtain rung down on the
Last ding-dong doom bell
On the last guttering spark
Of the last rock beneath
The last gloaming red-hued
Sputtering star

Nor, rather, the fantasies of
Union and wonder and utopian
Lion and lamb and loving
Kindness dancing together in
Febrile orgiastic impossibilities
The predator and the prey
Together in a kind-hearted
Eternity of denial of their
Essential selves as if
Truth pitted against truth
Breeds forth anything but
Chimerae and monsters and
Ravening bestial conflicting
Desires drenched in the
Worst sort of zero-sum
Devouring red-toothed nature.

What beasts are these, then
Trotting glad-hooved towards
Bethlehem to be born?
Paradox and pity
Delight and dismay
The beasts that shouted
At the frozen heart of
A world that could not
Find it in its bitter
veins to believe.

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