The Equality of Reason

•December 27, 2011 • Leave a Comment

On the western shore

•December 19, 2011 • Leave a Comment

by Philip Kane

The sorcerer’s chair is facing the west
and there is a shower of poppy petals.
How lost we are, how lost now
among the mysteries of this time
we did not expect. Yet still;
the servants come to us daily,
bringing green tea and bitter sandwiches,
and it is comfortable enough to watch
as the last birds fall from the sky.
We came from bright cities, we remember
as we remember lovers, fading shapes
pressed into the sheets, and always
there is the scent of marble. All gone.
We came here to wait on the shoreline,
but what for? Somebody
should have taken a note.
Instead there is a cursory nod to purpose,
and the gradual contentment of twilight.
Somebody should have taken a note.
There are poppy petals thick underfoot
and the sorcerer’s chair remains empty.
The servants are dying out
one by one. Somebody should
have taken a note. How lost we are.

subverting instructions

•December 3, 2011 • 1 Comment

Where sleeps the Chicken horse?
What lies ahead of its head?
a bulb needing be planted
A fire to be held aloft

where are the sheep?
Still locked away?
My cat died in a dream
crying out against war

Where is the fleece?
covering slipped discs,
punctured skin; self punctuating, loosely

Whose head is ahead?
lies lie lying late behind useful ilusions?

lift a stone
stick your finger in a hole
walk behind curtains
loosen your belt and drop

let loose


stand your ground and disobeye

laying moistened leaves on bulging breasts will soften and sooth

Let us

•November 27, 2011 • 2 Comments

YOU saw it protruding from an earthen sole that once melded with soil

We followed the demands of the whimsical chaos of wind and bestia lascivio

to reach the pointed end
the x
the spot

To burrow our way to the centre of the earth and come out the other side

a small prize is found
always left by your almighty unknowing kindness

Let us climb your legs
clamber over your bones
use your skin
and wrap you within us

TBL 271111

a True Report, from notes scribbled at the time.

•November 23, 2011 • 1 Comment

Into The Woods.

Far beyond the surf-boards of fame
there is a young sapling trying to be born
in a mist turned pagan by circumstance
past the large metal locusts

and the lizards’ tails
and the launderettes spinning into infinity
there is a gravestone in the shape of the five of clubs
and it is near the earth’s barred window to the underworld

(God has many paws here)
(and the echoes of fertile lust)

It starts with metal wheels clattering over a metal bridge
where the brook is too low to wash away the leaves
slide in beneath the bridge
slick and wet as oil, wet as love

A playground arguing the case for children
and the branches of a tree crying for my mother
see grandad grooming his horse
and the seventeenth century is shivering

Electric shocks of the crows’ calling
an insane cacophany — listen, there is a melting
where the river walks
into vast rats, bison and horned rams

Listen, because a heart is composed of two ears
listen because a man is climbing over the fence into the funeral parlour
and there is a fish-head on the grass
and there is a young sapling trying to be born

I found her resting on a fallen tree
by the tracks of wolves and pointed spears
in the breathing undergrowth
there was a single berry in the heart

we were at the crossroads, and the wonderment of not choosing
we were pensive in the House of Law

Going the way the tree-man points
past the vestibule, into the pregnant chapel
come! come ! talk the birds
and I see the legs of the Green Woman
in the open legs
in the quicksilver flashing of the birch

and a salmon-pink rose is offered
in the twilight of love
soft mold of decay, in the pressing of tongues
in the twilight of love

I said, “Let us marry in the turning of the seasons
in the spindly bowery of bright-green powder
in the archways to the sublime
convent of magnificent teardrops
even as the leaves return brown to the earth”

I was bouncing in my arena of orange and torchlight
The wood’s eyes were stone and burning furnace
I wrote the words ‘smokey barnacles’
and I heard elephants roar.


There was cake in the shrine of the foothills of time
and sweet wine was in the sunlight

and a mushroom was cooked and eaten
in the veiled mist of an invitation

and a salmon-pink rose was found
in the twilight of love

and three leaves
were found on a park bench
and I hold them now

Gilgamesh in Vivisections

•November 20, 2011 • 2 Comments

The Stain

•November 19, 2011 • 1 Comment