Read Ebook: Eyeshine by Brown Paul Cameron

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Ebook has 146 lines and 8426 words, and 3 pages

SWEET WATER

The leaves lie hidden as spades about their home. Brief movement of a kitten, then silence till the car's engine drones. Close by, a pioneer cemetery sits near a secondary wood.

Queer is the effect of sun on a tinted roof; bluebells with poppies, cowslip and tiny brook back of fields redden and given to wheat.

A house is a machine processing the water of living a replenished cistern, birds paying a call, a minor animal brushing past an ivy-railed fence. 32

PRIMAVERA

A poem is perishable and, like it, so much of life is spent in intervals - the jarring second regaining consciousness, a post-mortem flick of the lank equestrian eyelid that signals morning's first crepuscular move.

... a little salad consciousness about the tumescent room with the sentient purr of a cat; her musky oils a green verdure lapping primordial scent to engross a little readiness as the day progresses to its Oedipal stage and arrested development. 33

THE ENCOUNTER

Today surprised me like a red fox blurting out of an October thicket - empty, dry, the burst of its energy camouflaged much as that fox, solemn and cold, biding his time till he thought I passed. 34

MAGPIE TONGUES

Trillium breath, an ounce of feathered growth unravels in the cloves of the silent forest. The rain is heavy with the stamp of perfumed trees realizing slight restraint on bursting seed.

Cloaked in fragrance, tufts of mossy step kiss the opening earth, a basement horizon presumes the darling test of flower across dale & rustling nook, then undresses moist greenery with sumptuous eye.

The last is hardest - cat crimson, a fire weed sunset lotion, the rain erased away; nobody special harangues the leaves but birds steal in quietly with tenderness clothed of verdure to pinch a leafy oasis about their forest haunt. 35

PLUMS & VINE

Plums and vine intone the heavy church wall with errant sprigs, so Heaven sent they are big with earthly passion racing for the sky.

Madonna Poverta in her midst with the pulpit clutching Light - so gnarled, like bush, that each crevice reeks with stone all stooped under such worldly avarice. 36

PERHAPS Perhaps the sky once was shadows, the moon lisped 'mongst April's song. Now, those warm lips ease departing sorrow like pressed flowers emptied from hallowed ground. 37

APPROACHING THIRTY

Laconic tears or Botticelli's Venus holding the years like tresses in a wistful pose.

Tenebrous youth accosted by callow Time bleeds the heart with spring aloes. No comfortable shibboleths to restrain the wriggling polyps in the skin or nestling hair.

Gerundive in movement, each particled whimper of the clock surrounds a cloistered second poised about the bearded target. As far as you know, nothing unusual.

A total of eight hundred months but grammar school sums, spiel & mileage to drift across a lifetime. At thirty, the best half of the potage is gruel hand drawn from the sabulous pot. 38

PASSAGEWAYS

Greet the days - greet the moon, gather the stars.. . Man is not at one with himself - collars the infidel ways of his race under pressure domes of widening silence.

I scan the horizon barely cognizant of the metallic bits that pierce the night's crown - no jewelled orb stabs this queen's spectre. I am running and lost. . . ever slow to breech this reasoning.

Honeysuckle mist with armfuls of orange lilies with scent stronger than the carriage needed in their gathering.

Place the constellations upon their heads, the colour so transcends. And then there are the bludgeoned stars fallen into the eyes of my farmhouse scene. The sphinx moth that darns the night with her acrobatics escapes the wreath of troubled moon that places about her proboscised head. Let her stone the night in peace, feel palpitations on her ocean breast.

The darting of stone cracks in fissures along the causeway to the stonehouse is certain and sure. A definite mood projects the starling tunnels, forlorn now with limpid darkness, crushed lavender from the pews of thoughtful night.

There are armfuls of crushed bats in the passageway to my heart, each reeking with squeals to alarm the most frightened princess. Only one has stained the pass key and I must find her.

A toad abides the thoughtful recess broken under the wall. He is a good toad and mourns the night creaking from the river bed. A monster dragon to the insects making a living near the light - a source of amused contempt to lepidoptrists squeezing the eye's circle, pressing her to release her giddy charms.

At morning, skeletal remains shall stain the blighted chain but, for now, only the night buzzes with alarm, cracking her secrets with each tiny monster hurled at light's intrusion into dark.

Perchance I shall narrow down the divide, position alarms, remind myself I am inured to the mood & scent that mans this cosmic bandwagon. I hold up flowers to remind me light escapes through jelly and that rare LUMINESCENCE exists only in lost bat chambers buried deep near the recesses of the snake.

The cry of havoc, all those armfuls of collapsed lilies breaking under the toil of enforced handshakes leaves me like a broken lamp. I have no more shades to patch the plinths or barricade my heart. I have left my love on bended knee in a land I choose to forget. 39, 40, 41

KINDLING

As a matter of fact, ovens do carry a glazed stare, fireplaces are wont to parry thoughts to kindling before their stoop and on breathless summer nights one is hard pressed to recall cinder and blackened barleys any more vegetatively than upon these harridan pots. 42

THE GLOWWORM

In slow sutures of pale white - dabbed in growing spume & mud dried earth, a glowworm is obliterated by warm, soft light coming up to elbow particles of near dappled clay that plants dissect, warm as feasts, aloft a muscat lawn.

Pale, segmented tortoise - trite in area and jellied purpose, the glowworm oozes headlong through an aroused dark necking furiously with fungus turds and truffles rooted from the pig ground by mice sized swine holidaying on scents and mildew salvaged thru pores & nestling bowels of their planet sized turf. 43

BETWEEN TWO STONES

They poured hot water into people's cups in which green tea leaves were floating like algae, or into red-painted spittoons placed on the floor which the travellers made frequent use of... It was strangely quiet. 44

THE WATERS OF THE BAY LIE BENEATH

An abandoned house - dark salved to eclectic; crinkly, black pigment of old pine boards disparate to the elements.

The waters of the bay lie beneath. A long slope trailing back of brush, garbles stones hoarse in the throat of a dust-flecked field are made more barren by the skunk cabbage weeds, the ugly, flotsam cloaks of horse hair to the neck - a hair shirt, coddling abrupt the barren pain tilled from empty soil.

The summer's heat. Nameless insect waifs wavering, adjusting tumult to straighten the tight air about the outward door frame. Pinched in windows, glass in refugee lots billowing about urine paper; nails a ruddy pick dried to rusty blue, some dim shiny in their cropped disrepair. A road dry, rotating bare, nameless zigzagged

only limestone in shelves meanders in throngs about stony debris, sometimes up to this beaten house. 45, 46

PASSING

I should be busy with words but light distracts me makes for me, in the sowing of its waves, neutral observances, a chilled awareness that the sublime is contained herein the wonders of the commonplace. 47

KITH AND KIN

Once there was a giant who lived in a kneecap, a peculiar giant at that who expelled all reality as a pig might a poke.

Not concerned with the dilemma of easing life's toothpaste form into dental crustings or oblivion's dark shadows from lightless paths, the giant assumed guardianship over his fibro-tissual home.

The giant could be seen ferrying dwarfed bones over the inter causal dome of flesh and blood.

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