The Torturer, Now Captive
The torturer, now captive,
is a thing of transparent cages,
a maker of vast solutions,
a ruler of torn clothes, who lives
in a prison of dusty windows,
a room of silent bars, of polite
diseases, of sullen trances, and
searches for a kiss among dead faces
like a man of creative wars who
knows the obligation of
power is to raise the blood it despises.
Greater than experiments of death,
of futility, insights of blood, boundaries
of insatiable law, is the corpse of light
hair and dark skin, wearing
broken shoes, badges of courage, who
day and night, keeps a journal of blood,
in motherless air, while the sun blasts
palaces of freedom with the
body of voices and the odour of decay.
Softly like a viper shaking itself free, the
profound world of evening is still.
Softly out of stone fingers
oozes the club of strange faces and eyes.
In the Name of London
In the name of London I find
at each blind turn rivers
of triumph and rivers of destitution.
There it lies, in shadows of illumination,
begging for more water to burn.
I sleep in a crisis of songs and London is my
music, but the Thames is the worst of my loves,
rich with droppings, a grey
skinned trough on which savages once bathed.
Rougher than my hair of voices is this spacious
home, tied to watery cliffs, of elected gold,
where the sun of government slowly passes.
I walk down streets packed with empty flames.
I look up at St. Paul’s and see
a chain of fountains and a heaven of bitter clouds.
I smell in dark windows the poverty of snow.
each cry of desperation I see a man clutch wind.
The city is a sty, its heart grunting with glassof inedible creations.
I grow with powerless fingers a beard of time.
I seem broken in crowds, my arms full of failed light.
I rest under stars of sand and
eat with draughts of air the berries of a twisted race.
Austin McCarron © 2012