Cycle Of Low

Moving down

with complete, hallowed radiance

to stumbling grace

and pillars simply cast down,

the sorrow hampering,

to culminate in trembling tone

of the last time

when we all came here

into the hell-bent race

to reach out for a time

when all is as imagined

as can be.


Using our Lady,

Lady of the Lake,

she says:

“Ask, each time you want to come into this place;

because, you see,

it is not so easy

just to come

and your wrenching complications

drastically reduce the size

of the port-hole.”


And when They came

and saw the state of the traces

and laden ropes

(which stretched and frayed

until the weight became so unsupportable

that “uff, uff,”

up from the depths

the serpent came

from dream-laced depths of the sea

to support the rocking canopy–

the raft at sea–

and “Hallowed be our entry to a brighter future”),

a sting in the tail was so maidenly traded

for the colour of our eyes

when they see

what they no longer need.


But the lines go drifting down the current

catching all that come before the net,

its weight drags down the Beautiful Boat

in which we were trawling for our sakes.

The cargo sank

and all were consigned

to the place of their prey.


And in a shaft of light

which penetrated the Blazing Blackness

of the devouring ocean,

I saw an alien temperamental estate

which, rubbering around our local endeavours,

trips the switch

and shoots down all attempts to redeem.


Yet in the sane, Sounding-Place

where joins the Chorus

to the supplicating streams,

we continue the dialogue

to free those emblems

which became so encrusted

in the grain-soaked residue.


Too soon the rules will be changing;

too soon the shock will be raging

and ravens ‘aark’

and dog in midnight bark,

howling the hollow silence

as we see the aeons of endless populating

give out that graceful,

that sensational

Last Call to remember,

Last Call to relocate.


And the Maiden takes her slip

and shifts to a new position,

willing the consummation

willing the Retro-Raider on

from pulsing grasp

to dance with her

and sweat-drip the rhythm,

consummating all those unspoken

sleepless dreams

as She drifts towards

His stunned awakening.


In Each they seek

the barely-consecrated

naked truth.


But sorrow is the season

before the Beam,

the reaching down to caskets

in deep and thick unbreathing cavern

where the fingertips pick pearls

which gleam in black

and which are daylight encapsulating

tree-dripped dew

of maiden secrets.


And we saw it all before we came

and forgot the purpose

of our naming




So see where you are now:

silently protect your Mayline.”


I was born in a place

which was no repast.

It was the sighing Frome,

the sighing Frome

with licking banks

and oh, so tasty plastic trash

plantations of employing tasks.


And so long as the Afterlife comes in,

there’s no time to see the sun.


Cycle of Low:

“I must see the fruit

before I plant the seed.

I have no faith nor vision,

no long, low-wave frequency,

no sound to echo back the outcome.”

And the in-growing cables

electrify those traders

as they please themselves

and wrench the Carbon from the Fire.


“We shall lead a way and Radiate—

sickness will away.”

And smile, smile, smile,

as the Rock of Ageless roasting

rakes the floor of the forest.


My sign is the sign

of the po-faced, porky

Palladium Master.

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