from SPEED OF CLOUDS


iii. Clouds of Stalk



UNDER THE CLOUDS

Light lines we walk to.

Not merely asides
But encompassings.

She is stood tall beneath them.
Before them - this has to be said.

Lazy forays that isn't quite that?
Fantasy is a scab over the real.

Lets move on a little from
The scrub of this slaughter;

"I cannot let go."

Lets wander together before
- The scup of their gut.

Wishes are blemishes on the fate
Of the unrealised.

You're a cunt misanthropist
Swinging from your ego,
Your swollen eyes
- Like pits dug from spat-product.

Savage sweeps of sound reach my
Ears and I spit back your image
- Self sealed from nurture.

To nature appeals the rack of the inconsolable.
Beast that's chained in god and rattles the cage
- Of social ignominy.

So whatever's beneath; So under
The clouds... spine twist hatred. alcohol.
- Teeth knarred, sperm matted hair?
My language is a torrent, which I cannot abate.

Flood of.seizure? Or the sweet
Song I fantasised
- To soothe out our path
under the duration of clouds?





AMPHETAMINE HORIZON / THE HISTORY OF CLOUDS

'And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,'
      - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

What are the clouds? Their History is time laid mutable overhead. A bare
thread, which unravels to air, sealed in by obscure tracks of thin film-to
fleeting vapour; they are the strata's of range diversifying degrees.

                               To alight as Horizon strips meeting over the
far-reaching distance; a stretched & deepening green across a space of
traversals; toward an openness free but fleeting over the far reaching data
strip of lines: the surface un-travelled unravelled un-made yet?

                      In-site is begging as such, the rupture cells purging
the tear; the fallow of inverse in which the dark may draw as the
culmination of times shadow; never truly traced but laid in containments of
walls. - Hope is that which leaps the laid to leaven. Hope is recalcitrant;
steps pre-forward of fall-out - to ward the fallen skies of histories
environs.

                               The totalising brink we edge, marks our
to-wards with each step a progress Hazard? Or foundlings upon brink we hold
out from; bracings of the up-written god hood blinking from shy brink: will
scarcity seam it's edge-to-edge, or buttress against mass? As

                          Lone & limbless figure in the far-away distance,
bent by time, to shape/       /Aeolian harp that cries at the severing.

                                      These string across a bridge no end in
sight only openings; closed before pillars could reach. If something of the
clouds fleeting could transpose across these lonely horizontals - line upon
line. To nurture surface, maintain the relations, no sacrifice but slights
agreeing plenitude over earth.





COMPOSITE SKY

Ghost clouds in white felt
The rain it is thin foil
That weighs on the mind.


Blue threads woven through
Space, perception returns us
Opening to light.


She seeks out the stars
While streams of cover coverts
- The moon from her eyes.


Wishing wells are rare
Like the Stars on the surface
- Of moving water.


Wanderings in for-
est are bejewelled green specklings
over hallow ground.


Bindings in branching
A Song under the cloud breaks
Branching to bindings.


Ghost trees in square plot:
Rhythms in shallow waters
Sign fragility.


       Mark Dickinson 2007