MAY

Hit the tube and left alone threadbare newspapers,
Exempt was the column on life searching telescopes to be burnt through the day into the weightless lagoon of everything.
A Conglomerate of aluminium and mirrors sent out to bring back old heresies.
We will further mock the Witches with this deep peering retina, softly spoken by the cardinal of the telephone.
The poor prostitutes of cross bones were burnt on a rack of wood in the northern season of spring.
Their atoms now make up shimmering mountains in the month of May.
They melt like Catacombs into the clay or bodies trodden into the mud of trenches.
The wire is sharp and all I can think about is the performance poet from the hollows of the aged bridge.
She is a living spirit amongst the old bodies of the plague unmoving in the shoulders of the walls.
All I can think about is the girl in New York moved on and passed advances to wade through the tide of fashion.
No other month starts on the same day as I do,
The year’s other breezes are not quite as tender around the shins of Aventine hill.


And everyone witnessed the unfolding of their thoughts,
Somebody contemplated the record of instances in the month of May.
Somebody thought of guns and fine steel engraving at their bucks.
Someone rustled for a spacecraft in the bed of their shoulder bag and commented on the sense of the air.
Someone peered at a cast of ballerinas that wasted in the Cathedrals.
There was music.
There were comedians causing tears to stream down the pink cheeks of girls I was in love with.
Ripples ran turquoise through the month of May.
I want to feast on the month of May and get a dog from the rehabilitation centre for lost blood hounds.
I want to see Jesus and trip magnificently in the month of May.
I want new eyes to see the whole glorious spectrum.
I want X-Ray eyes in the month of May.
I want to escape into the ultra-violet.
I want to create artificial dwarfs by anointing babies' spines with the grease of bats,
I want to use drugs such as dwarf elder, knotgrass and Daisy juice.
Redskins yelped in the month of May and islands collided with the dictionary.

On the king’s command I believe in the month of May.
I accept it as true because when I was young I found a stag beetle in Sardinia.
It was dead.
I took it home and put it on the balcony in the sun.
After supper I went back to look at it and it was meandering away casually in the Month of May.


I am a month.
I mean to cause you laughter and floral weddings,
I mean to set ourselves square with the fractioning variety of the sun.
I mean to deliver meals and water to the dusk.
I wish I could hold the patients sour smile of blood and vomit in the unoccupied halls of my name.
But I am just a month and incapable to stop the collision of asteroids and the collapsing of arthritic supermen.
I am the limp face of beauty, even angels cry.
And when their thick and salty tears plummet to earth they stir a movement in the ground.
And life comes into being in an eruption of sweet flower.
They distil the coffins of emerald and the valleys fill with the petals of the Lilly.