Paradise Lust 3

Paradise Lust Book 2 Part 3 (91-133)

 

            for Thomas Glave

 

 

Penance is not forgetfulness and the passing

crisis made past in reportage and chit-chat

is no less agony: the seepages and accumulations,

stocked-up fishbellies in stock standard measurements

of ‘stocks’, quotas in net islands abolishing

and expiring in reducing and consuming

their own denials. Perpetual roads

with working woods clustered about,

as Roman as permissions ordered through decrees,

a recording of dissension is divine or worse

to sound the bells, make fatal thrones

of all our coaches and swivel chairs,

or shucked up with newspaper

beneath dual carriageway, a rumpus

of transport warmed by the victory

of vibrant airwaves: the Tetra tower

nearby hummed through the night:

homelessness denounces lesser gods.

Which heaven ranks a fairer person?

I won’t stand down, renege clown antics

you grow weary of: O the plangent

wistful insightful (little burst of incendiary)

troubled sensitive invigilator of trauma

with clinical but rouge-like distancing,

that fairer person, that not lost of Heaven.

We subjects of colonial disordering.

In the pompous buildings a calmative

or restorative tempers invention:

pragmatists and idealists rubbing toes,

their tonguey mannas respectable for all

seasons they shift like cards: wisest

counsellings. And noble to boot.

Some peers already who might lament

the burning in pitchworld, lament

the regressive, gingerly nibbling the ‘bestial’

over their classy humours: O for the blue waters

unhindered: yes, indeed, the clear waters of lagoon

or just extension of blue water wishes; I should explain,

my shifting allegiances of many years not in politics

but in embodiment: and in the beatings I received

I hand a plumage to all sufferers (I have not forgotten you

and would never abandon): it’s true, and fear will leave

letters floating among the security services,

nation and exclusion bedfellowing semantics

to smile through urges and persuade wars:

‘cast ominous conjecture’ to unfurl their

success, that regular gruel all might ingest

without the posse’s revenge. Dire, the towers

of Heaven looking to ancestry for the clarity

of air, the rights of flesh, untrammelled love.

Dire, the legions’ fear of obscurantist wings.

 

 

John Kinsella


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