MAX’S BIRTHDAY, SOULS BURNING AND BLAKE

                 

 

An Instant Photopoem on litter at the site of William Blake’s resting place

 

  

 

 

In Bunhill Fields, Blake, Barbecues and BJ’s implosion

Of skyline. As the modern flats lean as henchmen,

The seer of visions stares on.

 

No doubt speared by change, his soulscapes resist

The intrusion, rising like smoke from the tincture

Of the singeing flesh and lost song.

 

 

A cascade of pigeons descend to pick at shards

Of the carcass. A Sunday lunch that has roasted

The sacred sense of this place.

 

But the poet appears as a scavenger squirrel

Instantly dispelling the trespass; amidst these ruined eggs,

And in dusk light, much honoured ghosts cast their trace.

 

 

Little remains of the time when the city itself

Revealed Magick and yet enough of it filters

Through a chance encounter like this.

 

Stopping in on my way to Max’s birthday function,

Old Street becomes ancient, as Blake, the mind’s elder

Revives the wracked city, painting night

 

As day passes, with his resonance blazing,

And all of time’s scented flavours, still relayed in his kiss.

 

I hasten these words in the ten minutes before the site

 

Closes; a fast veneration of sanctity’s struggle

And the image that fires on, across brick.

 

It is the tongue of taste tainting us,

And the lamb of God on a skewer.

And perhaps Blake himself, biting through ash

 

To unearth and deliver

A far sweeter future

Than this.

 

 

 

                                  David Erdos,    6.50pm, August 4th 2019

 

 


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