An Appearance.

Once, stumbling upon twilight freely,

As I wandered, bleak and bleary,

“Drip-Drap” slapped behind me clearly,

Creeping up the Stone walls near me.

I felt a presence present a feeling

Unto my mind; already reeling,

I spun upon the sound, revealing

A sickly pool of slime concealing

The Sky it dejectedly resented stealing.

Now, I stood, warped to sickness

To see such vast black twisted dauntless

Oily Slick, spread out so viscous,

Settling through the Terra shameless,

Rendering under it e’erthing feat-less,

So all above, stale and eyeless.

Over went I with such horror and fear,

That surmounts the petrification sheer,

But draws you instead rancourously near

Until my thoughts i could not hear,

For in that black oil slick, A Seer

I saw with Eye like Spear.

The Sky now seemed to tear like flesh,

The Sun, it ravaged down on sea,

The Mountains bore a scar afresh,

As my gaze was locked, came free

All this I saw, through blackened mesh,

The Oil, its hold let go of me,

The Epic was of Gilgamesh

Birth Witness, I, to The Phoenices.

There’s a gull flying low, in and out my bedroom window, and all I see are triangles in your eyes. Its the most perfect thing ive ever seen. And I don’t yet know, quite what they mean.

There’s an eagle inside a obsidian breasted crow, he’s waiting to spread his wings and grow and grow, but the carrion meat and the circus show is all he’ll know. Unless he learns to let go.

The Crane lands gently on the pool, an arc of water emanates the softest glow of love around his prey; he sings for them, and everything is White, but he will not love them. The White edge of exponential divinity.

Sparrows mark my name in the trees. Larks and starlets carve their truth on the sun; sealing it gold from a graveyard shift. Exchanging witticisms, they, whose ether has been forgotten, blink dew from the eyes of the dead. Where poppies bloom, men fell, to their knees and to our shame, to weep over the seeping gloom.

The vultures curl sweetly around the ancient beasts of the wilderness, dripping soft sighs along the many faces of God, they light the way out of the trees, back along the sand and into the jungle. With sweeps of grace, the vultures lift off the covers, and co-ordinate so acutely, who gets what, limb from spine?

The ghost of every night has risen above the fog, above the town, above the men, above the smog, to hear a single paw snatch. Nothing hears her talent close, no-one hears her knives dig in. Giant diamonds smash open the fear caught coldly, silhouetted black against the moon: the owl looks back.