New material from the London Surrealist Group is currently being posted on our newer blog, Arcturus, at http://arcturusjournal.wordpress.com/. We’ll be starting to post here as well, in due course, but go to Arcturus for articles, poetry etc at the present time.
Our friends are dust,
sewing their guitars
with pearls and kisses
in underworlds beneath the skirts
of transvestite princes.
Such days are these,
that the cattle hop like crows
in desolate fields.
I break, my heart falls in slow spirals
to the floor. Don’t recall it,
whatever the memory might become
is too unbearable, and creation
is always repaid with betrayal.
I heard the last transmission
from an empty dream, stuttering,
voices of skeletons in the cellar
that will not be silenced. And
this was my first thought;
there are too many banners
and too few fields of grass.
Those friends who left before us,
those lost kisses, those tragedies
fallen from ancient starlight
are but reflections of the age
and the assembling of losses.
My friends, my comrades,
you sad creatures of dust,
you remain a pattern of music
within the passing of days.
Memory only murders you again,
and the fields are aching.
The flower of virginity weeps,
lapping at waves thirstily.
One horn is enough to penetrate
the fortress of a glass heart.
And water will always flow uphill
into embraces. Weep noisily,
you dying flower, drink deep.
I am an apocalypse of stars,
the skull of a horse staring back
through windows of allusion,
a blue face collapsing in the corner.
There is the door, over there,
its handle twisted by the heat of fear,
teeth bending into the tempest.
Where are you now, creator,
where dare you?