this cabalist passion for milk and honey! I share the desert with machinists.
behind barricades of quatrains I work with raw materials, magic stones,
and – fallen into events, an impersonal history – have never had such company
or communion. my tomahawk voice fells the tallest, gibbering with idiots
savants, as waves of barbarism crash and rugby scrums form in boulevards.
what’s happened to the draped flaneur, or candled soul of monk? mania
and engagement! the engineered dream – Paris – is losing its dollhouse aura
as bourgeois goldfish in the pond are lunched on by black cormorants.
this would have been the funniest opera ever, but I worked out the ending.
now I war with Latin egos who dislike the concavity of a poet’s brow,
Cain forehead complimenting a cloven hoof. they are scared of my agape
mouth – with a cat’s incisors – intoning the formula ‘as above so below’.
a fieldmarshal is fucking my mother. that’s as good as France. in this nadir
darkroom, I develop poetry into photography, my broken heart a crystal ball.
Poetry: Niall McDevitt
Photo: Julie Goldsmith