Alex Allison - Poet

After birth, illness. The nerves get bad in a squat hut with poor candles to keep the shadows alive. And dust stirs in the dark sacrament of night sending flickering shivers through the earth's lineaments. She sees the vacant stretch of stars vibrating slightly, like clues, or taunts from another world, and feels distinctly sick. On the seventh day He rested. Even He felt tired, tired of all the shuddering atoms in the corrupt strata of creation. She collapses, and for the first time, after long delay, the desert sand feels the blessing of her tears.

When I feel unwell the raw pollen of germs flooding my body God shines through a crack in the universe Suddenly something of His Nature is known Unable to hold the world upright an outer shell of vulnerability a slight shaking in the hands knowing the pointless necessity of martyrdom A poor beast's dreams interfere the thinking Notes on the nature of reality made shorthand never to be understood again Then memories of Ireland   the crossing to Rathlin the feeling of tossed sickness   and the fresh salt spray making the face worth living in        open vaults of air fear in the water and joy in the light Running the gauntlet of feeling unwell always makes me wish I was with you

This is going to hurt not having you not being me (the one I was before) The stupid forgetting of the brain the stupid revelation once again of cold cruelty of Winter Birds' notes die against a fathomless of trees, the colour-joy being shot bloodpulse colourpulse eyepulse a ritual by a Japanese lake in december to bring awake the spirits of the passed and children making games out of expensive shapes Departure has its metallic taste, taste of the soul weeping    crying for holy wounds to make the world blameless again

Like termites under glass, Saint Thomas keeps us safe. The yellowing of the year is like a recompense for some dim act we barely remember now. How funny how the conscience, or denial, does not sour.      Klonk     klonk goes the hour that sends the rats into the maze. No matter how clean we are, each cleansing comes as a shock. This is the realm of colours splashing into each other like boats splashing into maelstroms. We ask for Homer's hands to build us a solid narrative from lightning, rock and bone: splinter us past the Odyssey's orbit into countries unknown, trapped in light trapped in darkness trapped in yellowing words, words too lightly akin to leaves turning slowly to mulch. We shiver in guilty penitence as God lays Winter's fires; the whole world holds its breath, counts its small blessings, and into the blank wall of sky sends its fragile prayers.