The gods met up to decide your fate first
they made their decision through the “rosy-fingered dawn”
the wind was young and they sat on the broken spells of rain
a dozen owners of the stars
throw down their signals,
an inter-wind of eagles to see if you’d notice
the new windows high up in the hills
the new thousand years of tree room
made like shaking trains far in your childhood
for you to roam and leave the cold streets
for you to imagine the end of the sky
and the school you will one day leave.
To see if you would notice me
walking coatless into the flowered womb of ghosts by our bed.
The night continues to note down the morning dawn
it breaks slowly its hands gentle like a smile
ragged with blue ornaments from a mountain seascape,
the light is egoless at this hour
it is in a state of meditation
it rows pulling light like a guardian
it is a woman and man
it is the quest of prayer-wheels
giving the light the latency of light.
You're fast asleep beside me rafting with the tides
you have your own birds of the sky hallowing you unbonded
but the birds inside of me have not stopped
flapping their towering wings in twos
a river in the womb of a river, another mediterranean.
Athena stayed behind like a statue
in the darkness holding the torch light towards Troy
remembering the honour of peace
remembering the hour of waking
remembering the bureaucracy of tears
the heavens remain unimpressed
their only job— biographers of the light
a freezer tray to the sky
where all golden light come to die
and live in between the voices
a postcard to the church.
And you're now awake and everything is settled and you say
“I can feel it, it’s alive.”
In the morning, Penelope
The first together is the morning itself
the marrying wish of dew
the first dance of the grass
renewed like a child’s clock
the grass sings to the window—
“come down to the sky fields,
come down and re-watch the eclipse
come down, Penelope.”
The early light unaware of the low hum
that entwines the mood of the air,
in high memory cries.
And we remember the ghosts better in the morning
the rising light that is always a grace
on the back of the things you love
scattered through the house like lego.
The bed remains ancient in its ritual of worship
a personal attack against strangers
made up of all its own Trojan wars
hung in literature, undebated.
It is easy to believe that it is a privilege to grow old
in the morning and that age is young
and all that is above will remain immortal
regardless of loneliness.
THE LAST 60 SECONDS OF MORNING
Thunder first, locked up in babble
rain-eyed gods on their backs
you staying in the forefront,
black ribbon, angel headless,
four standing roses and a background of wind-split
you died in America for the last time
Jason Molina holding all the horses
behind the last slip dawn rain
I cannot live in a place that doesn't save its people in time
I cannot live in a place that doesn’t live out its own odyssey
so the myths are paralysed
the myths are luminous riddles
the horses are all full
the saints are bold cannons
love is a vacuum mist
a showed weekend of dreams on repeat
A distant screen to both worlds
a second think to the running light
10 seconds where morning is at one with daytime
clasping in the change of lightness
lugging the stones of womanliness
peaking and popping when everything breaks
10 seconds where morning is at one with daytime
a spin of patter, a direction that needs no explanation
downwards to the earth
a curtain of forward and back
A slide of swan dance
swaying in animal timing
the last joy to morning is the memory
the animals are laughing
grasping forward they escape
light continues to slide out
the gods are asleep now and far away
a preview of reflections border the world
night is lowered to day and the actors arrive
worrying their costumes.
More news via: https://www.imdb.com/title/tt6531890/?ref_=nm_flmg_act_2
For autumn/winter 2018, Mulberry was inspired by a dynamic array of muses. In a suitably spirited shoot for Vogue, Greta Bellamacina plays The Runaway Muse. “Tomorrow true glamour is kindness,” the actress, filmmaker and poet says in a homage to the brand’s vibrant new collection.
Read more on British Vogue: https://www.vogue.co.uk/gallery/mulberry-autumn-winter-2018
The Last Birthday- Is up for official selection and nominee at the European Independent Film Awards!
Litany of forgotten stained glass angels of the East,
new windscreens of rushed oasis highways.
Love must be somewhere in the desert
this perpetual morning of summer, and its swimming pool eyes.
The light that is an ordinary god,
the light that is anarchic
Holds you here, blending the skylines,
perishing the oceans with adrift plastic sadness.
I thought you said we could be the mother of something
but our delight is neon and brittle.
Who will wash the ocean? who will guard the sun home?
The sunset is a blown lampshade to a land that waits on secret numbers.
The roads hold up a bridge
to another kind of haloed remembering.
Who will raise the crashed ships from the harbour?
Whose eyes can I fall into for sleep?
A maiden name for satellites,
white rays of passing cars and the gold that is their shadow
bodying sunset, strangering sunrise.
And we are the holders of sky artefacts
who romance and digitize seraphim.