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Akhenaten
Akhenaten, polishing his bronze
aged sun, knew it was so burning
simple, uncluttered with god's angles
yawning so greatly over milleniums -
they've rendered worshippers bored with
the cut direct to a turning god.
Pliaides people pray displacement -
their platinum's no alchemy from such gold;
they're electrplated softly from the stars
believe themselves so descended. Parallaxed
as if gas rarer than West Hampstead's
winded their words from husks, the drawn refracted
vowels of travelling empty. No matter.
The fiat of science is cosmos shaped
pawky with black and blue holes
the modern's mode of being simple-
minded strains for the oblique.
Akhenaten, too sophisticated
for the sophistry of worship
took on the sun's bare-faced lie -
for all times challenged a clean
scorch of self-deception. Left
blind watch-makers for
the time keeper that blinded them.
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Silent Elevenses
Slying eye to the camera for the eclipse
cornea to forbidden corona, the sudden cool
refracts burning inexperience
to reading our origins with eye pressure
and silence. It's the glaucoma of gazing;
the headaches tell us how far we've come, from
spotting our young names for moon and sun
though the land darkens to innocence.
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Khemanandi
You were one syllable: Liz.
It was so simple,
stripped down into a single knot of attention:
the card-end's hieroglyph,
your ten-speed sudden arrival,
and the plain, hour-stacked silences.
Now you are four - and unfamiliar;
so that at last I can roll in my own mantra:
(Let it go; let it go; let it go; let it go)...
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