The Voice Over

measure perspiration, water allow reach for it

deep in-draught:

ditch after

dug-out

dogged  indrafted

——

say the word that don’t belong

put it on and march along

forget the old and step anew

and the word will march with you

that word, it curls up and dies

at your lips as it emerges

like the spread-eagled toad it lies

in the heat on the verges

it clots sticky in the mouth

froths issues

here let me wipe out

it’s in the tissue

ugh with it  e  u

and gagging  om

they don’t half-mean anything

when they die they’re gone

blue wings thrown wide

under the weight of the sky

the eagle floats over the forest

undulating in the air like a plaice

divested of alphabet

——

on the twenty-second of june

at four o’clock on the dot

I won’t be listening to anything

I’ll have my eyes shut

I’ll bury the foreign broadcast

It’s the news but I won’t lift a hand

If anyone comes I’m out of the loop

I’m a sparrow I’m no man’s land

——

the home fires are burning low

be still my heart beat slow

don’t spend the kerosene douse the fire

it won’t end as I desire

strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows

a hundred young warriors scrambling to form the watch

the warrior’s raven-black horse returns without its rider

the dark cloud was without silver lining

the song snatched

from the river the bayonets glittered

glimpses of white sleeve

volunteer walking at volunteer

cigarette in the death-grip of teeth

human waves

drum bangs

machine gun strafes

camera pans

birds singing in the sycamore tree

major petrov fucks major deyev

in the coarse pockets of ploughed soil

——

that night

over the field of battle

the nachtigall tells the nachtigall

nightingasps in disbelief

and in neighboring places

bird tells bird passing

from beak to beak like a dead frog

the exact science:

earth’s caesura

between the stains of the sighted

between one mottled zone of streetlights

warmed by proximate life

and its answering beam

the sightlessness of moss on boughs

anxious flight

armored vehicles

lenses

aimed at movement

——

no difference between first and second

patriotic or patriotic

great or pacific

atlantic

world

all the same they fall

to the only the civil

where sunrise quivers in the cinders

draws out the spear-tips

mate eh mate

giss a light

says the dead to the dead

says the killed to the killer

——

the flower dies under a skin of glass

mouth blackens stumps trickly crust

earth takes the dead she keeps them

and brings them up when she must

the sensible animals hold court

the witness box is a transparent lung

dark and trickled the way is damp

the bitch suckles her young

the judge lifts its eyes from the bench

to daylight’s low-hung bulb

holds up wanted posters

and asks the jury if I am absolved

barely pausing their talk

yesterday’s brothers emerge from the copse

in charred pelts, mud-crusted

get up on the cart, whip on the horse

to where the meadow holds an awning,

pins a path of stinging plants and thorns

the way back is belted down

even hope is stillborn

how to justify this? on the greedy tongue

milk writes in curds,

and paper is marked by  tree rings

traces of axe  a fool’s words

magna imago

——

the acacia has long blossomed

the army is long gone

melodeclamation

         has spread its wings and flown

ride a cock horse

to wherever the cross

and rip out the stuffing

and give it a toss

and freedom needs stripping

stay standing, lads, as long as you can

bust the joint, smash the game

one of our gang will crouch in a hole

wherever we are, and swig champagne

gypsies—dead

hussars—defunct

dusk now falls

color shrunk

pitter patter

across the heart

sputter spatter

on the tablecloth

voices raised in lament

which once were full of joy

——

who is that riding on to red square

towards st basil’s cathedral

countries rejoice cities jubilant

across my territory

begins two minutes history

vixens bark at the crimson shields

mosquitoes’ drone

drowns out the pealing of bells

russian hares

in all the polling stations

the country has spoken

and then the midges

tearing themselves from flesh

rotate tactically overhead

who wouldn’t want to be drinking the quiet don from grandfather’s

wooden cup, going back in time, rub your eyes

put kebabs on the fire

reclaim those words  sprinkle them on

soup

sprinkle earth

——

Vlas the volunteer, a fortnight dead

forgot the ruble rate, and what the sparrows said

and where he was from.

           A current of explosive air

held his bones in embrace. As he flew

the years passed from him, chubby-cheeked

babbling.

         Russky or Ukrainian,

o you, whoever you are, in this neglected crossing place,

consider Vlas. Vlas was nicer than you.

——

 

 

——

the human body

is not soap wearing thin to a hole

in the scented water bowl

nor is it ever wholly

of the past, always of the here and now

glows through the deadwood

not easy to dispatch

it creeps up like a snowdrop

through the carbon patch

and what was pining, barely alive

shut away within its bony cage

now floods into the dark recesses

to happen again

new life emerges when hope is no more

and you stand there, empty-handed and unsure

——

they traveled a long time

longlongtime

dumbstruck stillstanding trees

not-earth and earth pressed close

builder’s yards morgues fly-tips

skyfail palewhite

bluehills skywarmed