Into the Inky Midnight Graces

And into the inky midnight graces I turn to face a golden orb, which is hung against a river in Berlin,

Where the carps can breathe, where the ripples talk, the moon of the Yggdrasil the old lores say,

Do we believe them or write our own, as a language floats across the transcendental unity of apperception

Perhaps nothing is real until you make it happen; synthetic, analytic;

Empirical empress, with golden flesh.

I walked along here once and was lead to a factory, filled with arcadian leaves

the sun caught the river edge, and o’er and on to the city it lead

And once along the Holzmarket, where the crates had been placed

Against the rippling horizon bend and boats flickered in the fireworks of parties and occasions

Katerholzig and those places where people go to lose or cross, cultivate their lifelines and bleep,

or drink more I’m in a cynic in white

Trying to practise writing to paradise, fly or run up the golden steps,

Trace a millions lines into a page a leaf, across a canvas, in starflesh,

Navigate a business, a boutique, pluck a string with a fragile hand and pretend

Or maybe it’s real the lines erase from me every day

I’m getting younger as the curves of my tree pass through the seasons

and I’m grateful and blessed, it’s dedication I seek, and inspiration,

writing through the clouds as a white light licks the edges,

And there’s the golden orb every time I see her I’m closer to a nameless wonder

I dare not name for fear of tracing the edges with the hair’s breadth of the word,

Too close it follows where I studied the fire and ice

For seconds, now it follows me, a shadow play step by step

and where art and what form am I, could I take the words back.

This anglo saxon songs, the latinate, the fuhrers and vauxhalls, and night spent in Vauxhall

 Tracing goldfish into transvestites in a penthouse and London’s lights

There is a great bridge, you see, as you cross in the dark on the entrance,

Lit in green against the architecture

When I return I dream a little closer, to embroidery and lace, stage lanterns and literature.

Luminous manuscripts I will write and visit, maple syrup, gold leaf, 

Cream parchment and fresh batches of stained light ink in red, blue and green,

and the scent of lillies under chandeliers, perfectly aligned and pristine in a warm pale room.

Perhaps the trinkets and treasure will turn into Tiffany’s ringed round my fingers without the blood

My conscience traces the senses impressions and threads their history,

And my eyesight’s thirst twinkles like the other girls in the Canaries.