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satin-green dung fly,
    And fungus sweats a livery of epaulettes.
                            I was a hunter whose animal
    Is that dark hour when the hemisphere moves
                              In deep blue blaze of dews
    And you, brunette of the birdmusic tree,
                                 Stagger in spat diamonds
                                                        Drunkenly.
    Like some Saint whose only blasphemy is a
    Magnificent juice vein that plucks his groin
    With April’s coarse magicianship as green
    As the jade squirt of fruit, I was the child whose breast
    Rocks to a muscle savage as Africa.
               Thundercloud, your wool was rough with mud
    As the coat of a wild beast on which flowers grow,
                                        Your brogue of grunts so low
                      They left soil in the mouth. After you, I
                                Walked as through a Djinn’s brain
                                                               Gleaming lane.
    I was incriminated by your hammer
    In my chest. And forfeit to the crepe hoods
    Of my mother’s eyes; the iron door of her oven
    And her church. Skies, cut to blind, had but laid on
    Her priest’s mouth the green scabs of winter.
                             But I had the marvellous infection!
                                Leaning upon my fairy and my dog
                                                             In the ultramarine
              Latitudes of dew shook like a tear that’s carried
                              Through darkness on the knuckles of
                                                            A woman’s glove.
    I saw each winter where my hen-thrush
    Left her fork in famine’s white banqueting cloth;
    Could I not read as well the tradesman’s hand
    With its magenta creases – whose soul turns blandly
    On a sirloin mattress to smile at the next meal?
    O She who would paper her lamp with my wings!
    That hour when all the Earth is drinking the
                              Blue drop of thunder; and in
    Dark debris as of a magician’s room, my beast
                                              A scented breathing
                                                          To the East.

20th Century Invalid
    I am sick mortar and anonymous
    Like that night worker
    Who must wreck his health
    By eating fog in cities
    Laid up very still in breath.
    But do not blame my illness
    On the grave that digs itself
    From ‘one day’ to my shoe
    And nudges to be stuffed.
    The fault lies with the tutor
    Who gave too powerful an instruction
    In Creation, that I am stricken
    And anonymous on city nights,
    Who had no right to show me Earth
    Abroad in Limbo with her clouds
    That browse about her in bright fleets,
    Or deeply with his thumbprint mark
    The softly-beating mortar of my heart.
    He knew that his tuition
    In so powerful a Creation
    That roosts abroad in Ether
    Thickly hung with blazing fleece,
    Would groom me for damnation
    In the city among men
    For to bite the dust anonymous
    At night is twice as bitter
    When the appetite is great.

Diary of a Rebel
    For my fierce hot-blooded sulkiness
    I need the café – where old mats
    Of paper lace catch upon coatsleeves
    That are brilliant with the nap of idleness
    …And the cant of the meat-fly is eternal!
    On the window is the milk of lazy breath,
    And the coalcart rumbles – with huge purses
    Full of dust and narcotics for the masses!
    Sin pricks me like a convict’s