Wolf Tongue
Page 2
What pale imitations these people are
about me. What castings on the true self.
I cannot answer any call, nor am I valid
if I know it is myself lying to myself.
What happens when the legacy you search
for, that supposed grail, wretches in your
belly, leaving you weak-kneed and crying
into a lavatory-pan? When the one
person you really love is ‘being torn
apart’ by selfish transparency. Pathos
of melancholic distance leaves me dead.
I have only one half of my parenthood.
The other isn’t dead, but he lingers on
this side of breath with the tenacity
of a rat. That breakdown in relations
doesn’t even bother me now. I just want
to be left to be inhabited by my furn-
iture if needs be. Or the music of an
empty room.
And the new reality, the real, is full,
kicks you over, tells tales, whistles at
you when you walk, leaves you for someone
else, but leaves no sentiment (spelled
sediment), nothing to scrawl on sheets
about, to talk about at night, when the
bed and the world wait, cold as each other,
when piety cocks its capped head, like an
old owl after little, little mice. It flies
from the oak, which used to be a sign of
strength, but now is only a sign of age
and decadence. Humanity is pale, and don’t
grin at this, so young in conception, only 18
years this has come out of, a few thousand
hours; mis-spent and irregular, so even
in the writing of it, concrete things became
false on the page, prostituted, wedged
onto pedestals. The poets putting one
another on stands, laughing a little,
slap a back or two. Break a back or two
then write about THAT. The glass floor
moves slowly, like the months of mealy
personage. Down into the pit.
I am rejected and leave in haste. Today I
read: ‘Love is not Love until Love’s vulnerable.’
Is this too close to the
heart for the telling? If so, reject it,
and cut yourselves deeply, for I’ll be gone,
and am deaf to windborn cries and sobs,
and there is one I know will sob.
That one lends me virtue, and I live
thereby; she knows the grammar of the
most important motion, the song in a flame.
‘I came to love I came into my own’ and
left behind last year’s skin of commerce,
which is a nice term for poetry and friendship.
For water moves until it’s purified, and
the weak bridegroom strengthens in his bride.
So love is all I know, and that the dead are
tender. What I need is a puddle’s calm,
a unit so small that I can span it in one
go, in a single drunken lurch, delicate
and strong in intent. And not to fall quarter
way across and graze my heart on sullen
teeth. My heart is bruised enough. That was
the final lesson. With a spinning head I
listened to a lecture of anguish, bawling
out of the wet darkness, but white hot too.
In the whirlpool, sleep takes over, the
boat bobs like a ball: this is the
lullaby of death. Friends and skeletons
hold hands in the marriage of evil.
There is no evidence.
Sterility asks how, and I answer from
the Gates of Dis:
2
Some lie at length and others stand
in it. This one upon his head, and
that one upright. Another like a bow
bent face to feet; in life that is,
in purity and love, in masking each
other from each other’s parts; clouding
the dense way (dense already as it is),
and shades across the eye, clear as sunlight,
feeling for the soft heart, groping for
the plastic spine, to twist about the
hand, to turn into a bow, to fire the
arrow of the aim into the void.
Reality too takes care to step aside.
Even romance sidesteps into darkness at
their passing. Their soft soles, their
black cunning, peeling the earth with
knives, unable to peel with their hands,
implementing the very innocence I have
foregone and given up, and now hold from me.
Frugal though it was then, starve shall
I now, until habit takes away the larger places,
and age moves me into smaller, smoother walls.
3
And her who is Israfel takes me to
pity through pain, searching for
satisfaction, which wasn’t for me.
It is like climbing or dancing:
practice makes perfect. Break a foot
or crack a bone, so wait until it mends
then carry on. That is the indomitable
spirit of the backbone of centuries
that held down the dark skin of culture
in a manicured hand. That smelled of
talcum, that greased the stallion’s back,
and pricked the elephant’s flank.
That dubious imperial concern and greed
for guarding those less fortunate than
the hand holding the whip. That dark
continent of man has lived very well
since this ball of dust aborted itself
from the sun’s legs. So I carry a
burden no longer. Weary, I laugh at the staunch
proposal of further action, and cry
behind the bedsheets at the coldness of
my body. As the lover does, as she,
darkened with care, leaves the lintel for
the street, and the decay of unloving
and the noise of greed. But that is not why
I leave. I leave for the weariness of
staying the chase, of spurring my steed
over fences of wicker and match: crumpling
paper houses, trampling on almond eyed
children, bloodlusting pregnant mothers.
My horse flounders, ditch water soaks my hair.
I came, I saw, I leave, leaving my sword to rust
by the dead charger.
4
Ah the last version of forgetfulness
in the raindrops of dreaming. A king
bids farewell to crowds, palms for his
feet curl under sunshine, while the
disciple (in any book in any clime), leaves
to the accompaniment of stones. Pitiful
he trails his body over fields, the true man.
I question the silent rain for answer,
and leave whichever well constructed house
we were in, from what thick carpet
I lifted my shoes. Which street will I
be walking in next time you hear me?
Wherever it is I will be doubled, into
day and night, crawling into one
for strength, slapping down one for
glaring into my blue eyes. Now I stand
arm in arm with potency, looking forward,
past both our feet. So just like growing
tired of a job, or some drab government
post, I leave you all behind in the
summer sun. Enjoy the warmth, soak in
the lukewarm sea, wave your naked bodies
about like freedom flags. Ahead of me
is brilliant darkness, and the king
>
of night. This is a signed resignation;
I am finished with your kingdom of light.
1969
Just Twenty Two – And I Don’t Mind Dying
(for Elaine)
The Official Poetical Biography of Jim Morrison – Rock Idol
From his secret lair deep in grim South East London, The Scarlet Wolf-Boy has authorised a re-issue of his famous official biography of Jim Morrison, that gread dead locus vivendi of The Doors. And here it is. – O nostalgia of the Sixties and The Dope Era! Ohh leather and velvet, vouchsafe to us another glashing chance of bliss! Locked doom in the bathroom cabinet. Unfashionable, mean, and brutish (in the Grandcourt sense) – no slag, just watch the way he walks: ‘Wake up cunt you’re living your life in bed’ or ‘I love you, my friendly little trout of Lambeth Walk.’ I adore anything with trout in it. I worshipped Morrison; I find MacSweeney irresistible in a smoky bar-room. I lend myself like a lamb and between The Snake and The Wolf, my fire is lit and I’m burnt to cinders. I can recommend it.
JOHN JAMES, 6.IV.73
Rock litmus. Titration from Springfield, she
wore no colour besides, unfashionable & mean, held
such chemistry in high frond.
Nothing else to commend her before she died.
Never mind. O Longchamps by silk blouse run
over, meander after crown trimming. Snail on the
elbow, peach-blue.
Wake up cunt you’re living your life in bed.
Down the sequin, par-boiled in acrylic, trim. What
next? Nets across blood drawn-out, let the wrass shiver.
Ivory Steinway for a Fink, hotel lounge that creeps.
Notice an air.
Blow and she tinkles. Burn the desk, my new
vampire, blousy and blue. Giraffes invade the hands
a chaque etage. Qui? Smoke your kiss.
Chicano fret-board. There’d be liquid over-
drive. That isn’t a bass riff that’s a copper
knocking on your foot. Crimplene in a trice, elle
a neige, au bain.
I love you, my friendly little trout of Lambeth Walk.
What do you think I am, a prostitute? Fabergé missiles
and the bell-boy dies. Trim yourself, slut. So different
from the founder of the Shrapnel Wood and Metal Band.
Oh trite swanee whistle of Greenwich leave some for the
infernal onion.
Yes?
That’s not a Miami short that’s a policeman’s blouse
under Lambeth. The building will blaze. Time in the
Trossachs for a youth yet. Red is the colour of my true
love’s
(A tomato in denims.
I’m glad she doesn’t live here. It would be like
jelly. Forced to make her tinkle. That’s love.
Fast licks as a white Les Paul zooms over the derelict
Gaumont. (Pete Townshend.)
They played through an old tape-recorder for yonks.
This is better than Eric Burdon’s version. Hatchet
the strip. Turn it over, lose your mind, il a neige
au bain go the hounds. If finesse is crinkly you’re a
Dairy Box wrapper, whose heart’s crisp.
Palpitating spitfires were the microphone he
used. One’s not happy though: the painter died
before painting you in. Rotten canvas, not a
vote is yours. Short-circuits everywhere.
20 last week.
Take this black box, it belonged to my
son. Glower was where we lived, his face was
alien. He was not a navy man.
A corn of skull for Pan. Also take these
pipes. He was a wretch, they belong to you.
Drift like a lady-in-waiting through the tripe. Open
the sand, if it was late. My pimp’s keener, unsurpassed
lacqueurs along the baize.
Deck it, asteroid, ignore the Malaga grape.
Bennie’s dreaming. Don’t tell anyone, sixty miles
an hour in the root. Let the methedrine affected sloth
fly. Sixty miles an hour, backwards.
Ah pardessus d’Automne, sheep wept before
the ruby. A button of mushrooms, along the
gamboge stair. Tenderly ripped, with a chuck.
Umbrellas too, the innocents loved it, the
dark.
Yes there is. Fumé, en Troy. Cassowary of the
heart, pour grit on these inferior spurs.
Death taught to children who could fire the world
last week.
You ignored this? You are ignorant of life
itself. Corn in the washboard, the polack’s yem,
buried in a mouth-organ.
Following, il a neige au bain, toujours.
It’s either Keith Richard or Stevie Winwood. Shed
noose de leur rêves. A Grunewald flicker.
Planet.
Written on 25 September 1971,
High Barnet, Hertfordshire.
Brother Wolf
(for Jeremy)
…the resting place of the savage denizen of these solitudes with the wolf…
SHELLEY
…and on his part, the wolf had taught the man what he knew – to do without a roof, without bread and fire, to prefer hunger in the woods to slavery in a palace.’
VICTOR HUGO
1
the fire-crowned terrain
as the sea burns
wind
You can’t burn your boats when you live inland
Chatterton
knowing this
Died
Rosy myth
bee-like
we cluster & suck.
2
There is so much land in Northumberland. The sea
Taught me to sing
the river to hold my nose. When
it rains it rains glue.
Chatterton’s eyes were stuck to mountains.
He saw fires where other men saw firewood.
One step ahead in recognising signals.
And leapt into the fire.
3
Chatterton (who was no lemming)
mistook the hill
for a green light. Go! His final breakfast of pebbles.
The mullet used his body for a staircase
They float enviously around the meniscus on a raft of weeds
snorkels sparkling in the dewy light
4
He stood at the coal-face like Hamlet
and struck a match. Eyeballs
melted into his cup.
At the pit-head
local idlers waited for news. There was only
a brief burst of laughter.
Underneath, the mole shook hands with english poetry.
5
The mole knows peace and solitude. He avoids
roads and tries not to surface near a cauldron.
Mole lay by the lad’s frayed body
and held his breath. This is no ordinary parterre calamity
he thought (a blue tree
grew from one eyesocket
In a spasm of indiscretion
he told reynard
who can’t keep mum.
Mole also knows regret.
6
Or
Shelley’s heart which later turned out to be
Liver
& the fish had a whale of a time munching english poetry
It still happens
Throwing snowballs at Sussex from Mont Blanc
Toppling into the copper sulphate sol
Out come the bastard files a
Renaissance for certain
Before Chatterton arrives and breaks things up
With his meteoric tithe
7
All things (and the sea) with their own life
but won’t decide for you
A young poet’s life b
urns
Presses
(july wind on Hartfell)
taking our hearts (and poetry) higher
as if to be cleaned
& not one fish with an answer. You can’t expect advice
from someone you eat then criticise for having bones
because he wants to keep his body in shape & not spread it around
all over the estuary
(and poetry)
Why Chatterton lived in the hills
8
Chatterton knew
you may not return to the source
when you’re
it and
died.
At Sparty Lea the trees don’t want Orpheus
to invoke any magic
they dance by themselves.
Up there they
strap two
rams together the
hardest-headed
wins. Death
on the horns.
The trees dance by themselves.
9
He stood at the coal-face like Hamlet
and struck a match. ‘Strange
tenancy for ghosts
of universal disfigurement.’ Splintering
his crystal
he married the fire
became his ghost
(with appropriate mists
the arrogant say Parsifal
his final meteoric breakfast of green light
10
out of the doldrums into Hell:
‘O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!
For every vein and pulse throughout my frame
She hath made tremble.’
Hardly
a valentine.
She hath (a courtly tone) made
tremble. Ann Hath
-away.
A neurotic birch leaf. A trefoil of.