To the Fables
White is the eye
White the tongue without
White is the heat
White livered, white lunged
Sucking in darkness
Red the blood in silent tower
Red the spleen roasted in fire
Black, though, the mussels
Limpet-like avoiding light
Red-rust the fibre, rose-red grey matter
With tombstone illusions
White the soul, tiny stutter
Of the scream that, stifled, could not
Produce the shout in its dead throat.
Great is the crest of the grebe, tufted.
Red is the wreck, full fathom five it lies.
Brown is the bilge dying on the flotsam.
Yellow is the egg, cracked in the pan:
A yolk of brightness, sunny-side up,
Where breakfast & brunch divide their diets
To wean a worm, coffee-coloured creature
Sent into the garden,
In the beginning was Worm
And Worm begat Blood
And from the Chinese take away
Worm begat Genesis
And ended in
For behold the day cometh
Who begat Worm ?
Foul-mouthed it was
Shivering hairless torso in slimy squalor.
Autopsy at the Morgue Door
How cold like fine brass these plates of meat ?
Who sold this smooth-as-silk boat race
What gold glitters in this dung ?
How old the mould on this plate of mussels ?
How bold the guts to speak His name ?
Who told these abominable lies ?
All this bloody mess ?
These maximum-deficiency mince pies ?
This virtuous great dung ?
This permanent insomnia ? Worm !
Taken, liberated, imprisoned in aspic !
Who disowned the
Soul of the Earth ?
Who sold the World ? Worm !
What is more charitable than Faith ? Hope
than Hope ? Charity
More hopeful than
Charity ? Faith
Longer than Life
And what is
longer than Death ? Worm !
Last Will & Testament
Maimed with muscle.
Hurt through the heart with paper probate.
Shot dumb by mouth.
Shamed with a solicitor's statement.
Garrotted just short of his first birthday
With discarded derma.
Battered blind through his own eyes
His whole limbless life in short script
Suffocating under a duck-down pillow.
Towed along by the seat of his pants
Muttering a washing-up bowel
Of discarded crocks
Like rocks in a tea towel
But soaring skywards to Heaven.
Eardrums echoed, loud & near: What a joy !
God's in His
laundry: all's white with the World.
© Robert Ensor 2013