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
David Erdos, 6.50pm, August 4th 2019