A HAND TURNS THE PAGE

A hand turns the page
Of the book of time
That is written in symbols
And sounds of the forest
Which covers the earth
From pole to pole
Breeding strange monsters
To terrorise the sleep
Of innocent man
Carrying his troubles
In a suitcase of yesterday
Which he puts under his bed
Full to the brim
Of shiny black beetles
That explode like a bomb
And rush in a river
An iridescent flood
Over his carpet
And the man screaming “No!
I am not an Egyptian!
Organising slaves
To build the big pyramid
Of secret intent
And unearthly magic
A triangular obsession
Deep in the desert
That grows in Do-It-All
Ikea and Mothercare!
A desert of blood
And red red roses
Blooming painfully
In my inmost soul
That should be whole
Like the Garden of Eden
Where Adam and Eve
Naked as children
Live in eternal
Innocent bliss!”

* * * * * * * * *
A hand turns the page
And the symbols are singing
Songs of redemption
In an alien key
Full of dissonant splendour
Like isotope soup
Brooding, diseased
Bursting in chaotic patterns
From a pomegranate
That grew in time
In a garden of now
While on a beach of transition
The sea coloured night
Plays games
With the incense burning fraternity
Who cough at the door
And stumble on stones
With fog in the hallway
And fog on the stairs
And fog on the runway
And fog in their hair
When the spiders from mars
Drive cars in the street
And all the lumpen dead-leg sailors
Graft for a burning bush
In the rain
In time
Nothing.

* * * * * * *
The hand turns the page
Full of wordless rage
And words of pain
Dripped like honey
Down the window pane
All frosted over
With the cold snows
Of Killy-man-jarr-oh
& she said,- “oh no.
Now I must take King Lear
To the mini-market
For a bottle of beer
My, I am feeling queer
I feel like Beelzebub’s bum
Sitting on some faucet
In the hottest sink of hell!
For who can tell
What winds shall blow
And what storms will rage
Over my page
Full of wordless words.”

* * * * * * * * *

The hand turned the page
And at last you realise
There is no hand
There is no page
There isn’t
There never was
There are only your tears
Streaming down your amazed face
As you stand
In the holy English rain
Thinking – this is the hand
That turned the page.