Austin McCarron

On Waterloo Bridge I eat
a thousand languages
with my back to the world.
I taste its smell with the riches
of earth. I invent a home
for each continent of light. I find
a place for each island and man.
History is like music, a tradition
of song.
On a stone clock with gold hands,
the sun is setting on the hour.
Towering over churches of rest,
the City of London, its universal
tongue. Go in peace; the
water is equal to your destination.

The Hypnotist
Hanging around my neck the soul
of the twentieth century,
still warm from its dark cremations.
into its eyes I suggest a final number.
I hear millions and millions of voices.
The innocent conduct house to house
searches and like
grim fathers the evil return with flowers.
Green with animal nature,
the blood of countless races oozes out
of the death of its unspeakable hands.
Hoarse screams and blind laughter reach
a climax and coagulate. I snap my fingers.
I pass out rushes of light.
Returned from trances with peaceful and
calm revelations the children of snow
coloured forests and dangerous inventions.

Austin McCarron © 2011

Great War Poem

I sail on a ship to nowhere
but the sea is a cloud through
which fire passes.
Ribs of flesh I gather like coins
to throw at air.
On travels of existence I wind up
in a hut with docile sores and read
in silence
to friends of decomposing corpses.
Out of experience of loneliness
I know blood is possessed of a scent
to rub on the soul of my enemy but
truth is forgiven and
I see clearly the end of its desolation.
Animals butchered return my vision and
the water erupts like a stall of extravagant
meat, where death
is its own conscience
and scarcely is the sun a reward for time.
Rolled back like a boulder outside a cave
my compassion has few tears
but I pity grey avenues
with profound tunnels groomed for loss.
I count the price, where freakish creative
winds stir the medals on a far off shirt.
Behind silent coaches there is a grave
I once knew and its patience is described.

Austin McCarron © 2011