Austin McCarron

 

 

 

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.

Behind

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

 

Soup Kitchen

 

Seeking nourishment

I lift my lips above the soil

and starvation is a dinner

with burning voices

and my food is tins of sun

and juice of garrulous flesh.

 

I sit in a crowd of death with

pig of dismantled bone, hair

of diseased courses

and choose a meal of veins

from a menu of agonising dishes.

I pick at a starter of gutted eyes

and run my fork through a salad

of bitter decay.  I raise knives of

dripping stone and chew on beast

of horns with maddened severity.

 

I drink on the tongue of a shattered

grape.   I pour out the blood

of delicious blue animals on a mat of

wounded plates.

My sweet is covered in cream of time.

I inhale the smoke of life.

I pay in bills of despairing green notes.

 

Disappearing without trace I encounter

the body of existence and it is dead like

crabs in sunlight and it is dead like crabs

on derelict snow.

The wind of my hunger is not prolific but

obscure.  I store

in my mouth fishes of venomous spring.

I see graves of my hope shudder and die.

mist of bone, sea of light, gold of sorrow.

I follow the blindest sound and it is hungry

like a bridge of

stomachs, a worm of rivers, tears of water.

 

 

 

Austin McCarron © 2012