paper sky, blue moon

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Paper Sky, Blue moon Poems by Daniel Crockett The Battle of Water and Land Samsara Interruptus Cracks Satisfying product names with warped applications I know your combination Evoluted Beneath Stepper Point Keeper of keys Delphinese Hailstone tetris K™ Muzzle Rotting in the green grass Tar swallows & Dunwich Black tide Austral symphony The colour of air The other side of almost

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Poems by Daniel Crockett

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Page 1: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Paper Sky, Blue moonPoems by Daniel Crockett

The Battle of Water and LandSamsara Interruptus CracksSatisfying product names with warped applicationsI know your combination EvolutedBeneath Stepper PointKeeper of keys DelphineseHailstone tetrisK™MuzzleRotting in the green grassTar swallows & DunwichBlack tideAustral symphonyThe colour of air The other side of almost

Page 2: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

The battle of water and land

Under darkling moon the dayblack seaExtended an arm to silence the sunGold the residual glow and hissAs that disc, extinguished, fell

Then the water jumped up to roar;

I am leviathan, the sea is within meI declare war on this, mother landThen the peagreen water commandsTo drown the lichened rocks, the sandTo smotherTo strangle all in a yawn of iceRigor Mortis brung with dawn

I am leviathan, the sea is within me

Nothing but birds remain, pinwheelingKeening for their loss of perchAngry at the sea come stealingTired beneath the church of skyUntil at last, exhausted they fallAnd go under, evermorego under, evermore

Page 3: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Samsara Interruptus

This poem is in ten parts and invents gory and complicated deaths for a single entity passing through the cycle of Samsara – reincarnation. We start with the barnacle and finish with the human, who discovers the key to eternal life. During the journey we participate in the deaths of a woodlouse, a musk-ox, a narwhal and more. By the way, rorqual means whale.

Life one - the barnacle

Harnessed first the rorqual muzzle, sudden breach through subcutaquaCut adriftTossed loose amongst the shoreline thrift to dodge the many bladed beaksAnd seizedBorne crawwise cublike to seacliff nestFumbled midflight chute to harbour brineHMS BarnacleAt last hull-crunched on distant coralSteersmith drowning sorrow,Whisky-lidded,Simply misjudged the draw

Page 4: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Cracks

This is about the city and the thin veil between harmony and horror. I wrote it after a conversation with an old homeless man, it imagines his life and suicide. The book ‘Alex – A Life Backwards’ was involved.

Remark from the gutter:‘How ‘bout, half past never?’Downtrodden, trodden down with gunblack boots. Trampled into,Gum residue. Stiff like a good collar under a good suit.Hollow abscess horror. Rib sticking. Sucking flesh:Ersatz real. Broken like bad china skin peel.

Frieze at the ministryThis church, neglected church.Acid scars, cardboard bedheads for the gloom. Stuffed into,Dirty tins. Showered with the binjuice of the loom.Old Harry on his shoulder like a parrot stuffed.Acid scars. Eyes jagged like bust dodgem cars.

Fingers light in povertyFingered by silver, goldSold flesh, hand of Harry chokes his neck like a collar. Blueblack horror,Paving cracks. The moralizer accompanies through cut throat.And the old goat steps in front of the number nine.Paving cracks. I never caught his name in time

Page 5: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Satisfying product names with warped applications (volume 1)

Just try saying it slowly – Lapsang Souchong.

I sewed aLapsang SouchongTeabagTo my ear,To filterThings INeed not Hear

Page 6: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

I know your combination

Air, gathered in fitful starts, leaks like tree sap,spotting our greatest woundswith a bosky crust

I will grind you, between leather-capped tipsscrape up the fragmentsand re-cast your form

I know your combination,like the tree roots knowthe press of earth about their lumpen limbs

Page 7: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Evoluted

This is about working a job you don’t care for.

This automatic fleshConcomitantEndless limbs and limbsConcrete bodiesSagging seamsWeighed down like weary sacksMutely gropingAt the receding backsOf dreamsSkinDrawn tight orDrained inUnparsed foldsVentricular prisonsElaborateSchisms of the corpseWrapped wholesaleIn hopeLeached, beachedSoaked in the opaqueBlood of the marchMatchstick armsSnappedUtopia on trialThe hell-lit faceOf gravity's smileGrinning atThe gateThose nimble eyesFevered eyesBlinkingHateRapid dilationsSome symbolic rhythmsUndulationsIn the gorepitBowel of earthSin songsChantedSpatRebirthed as lawToweled through the teethOf chatelainesHorsewomenThe walking, being dead

Page 8: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

ThenRouted moralsFlee the farceThis bloody fateThis wretched danceAnd who now?To Ford this flooded worldParse these broken limbsConjoin this weary fleshWherein our Salvation?Youthful dreamsAHoax of freedomTarrying amongst theDiscardedThe discordantTruthDamned to dallyIn endless toilAnd tallyThe spoil of commerceFree TradeA bountiful phraseThis communocapitalistHoodwink.BlinkAnd you missed the gravy trainMissed the chanceTo sit amongst theFreeEngorgedBrainsThe wisdom of the richAn insane, insaneJokeMeanwhileWe chokeOn pure intentionsSalvation forMy generationA departed hope

Page 9: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Beneath Stepper Point

I wrote this in memory of my dear friend Jono Parr. It is about a place in Cornwall that I surfed with him often, and also where I scattered his ashes in the estuary for his parents. For a long time I would feel like he was surfing with me there and sometimes I would salute him. When I die I’d like to rest there in the water. The wane of springs refers to the dropping tide, a dangerous time to surf. The horizon goes black out there as the waves pass over the bar, touch the outside rocks of Greenaway (immortalised by Betjeman) and then run along the Fishing Cove field. The catch-rock is an unpleasant slab that has broken many boards and bodies, and the understudies are the best waves – the small ones that run for hundreds of meters across the sand to under Bree hill – the mound.

The horizon painted sudden darkBeyond the hallows; Doom BarThe treachery a siren callTo watch the wane of springs

Teeth of Greenaway afrightAnd tease the naïve mariner Then cast around the point itself The sweep of supple webs

From end to end the Fishing CoveCautious for the catch-rock sharpUnderstudies clutching estuary sandSalutes neath shadows of the mound

Page 10: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Keeper of keys

I wrote this living on the road in California. The character in this poem is The Tuke, who appears in my first book, Tin Can Odyssey.

The old fugitiveHolderOf road talesAndNow forgottenSongs of the waysideA tellerTinker of the wildlandDrummerOf the free forestComposer ofTheUnpublished, unheardRoadsongsScum they tag himWaster, freakSoftly he SpeaksWithout promptorinhibitionA crisp memoryOf snow-fedstreamsBrittle dreamsOf mountain passesThreaded seamsThisLunar manAscendantThinker of littleNo-mind explorerGleaner of muchWalker of blacktopBefore thatUntrackedKnower of forest heightsSilent plateausOf the mindAnd uplandsOutcast they call himAnd vagabondStragglerAnother that fellThrough the cracksWas damned

Page 11: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Bather in KlamathLabelledinclementYetThe keeper knows deathIn complicated dreamsHe arrivesTo prompt a shudderOn remote sandUnder bridgesBeyondSomehowyouthRefuses to abscondMazed in byForest thicketsA believerThat thisIsnotitConfuddled by carsThe logic of moneyElusiveThis, spread sheetsPocket changeThe sum of evolution?Instead he departsOnce more forThe pathHolder of knowledgeKeeper of keysDreamtime scholarBagman they call himVagrantBumDesert theSacred holderOf birdsongPlant loreAncient structuresNow hogtiedBy stricturesButterflyStitches acrossThe brow of the earthDecorations garishAll our manifoldBaubles ofDestructionTo beautify?To improve?The keeper

Page 12: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

In disgustRubs polluted soilthroughWorn palmsThen goneDissipated with the windDisintegrated under lightEvaporated into airCome nothingAnd with his lossGoes oursWith his loss goes ours

Page 13: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Delphinese

For Heathcote Williams, author of Whale Nation, this poem is written about our attempts to master the language of dolphins.

Did we manage to frameOne hundred words,One thousand words,A single syllable?Cracked and garbledrenditionsImprecision ourflippantButchery of dolphin tongueCan you jump through a hoop?Can you balance a ball?Can you chatter a phraseFor the delight ofSweaty assed tourists?Trigger-happy impressionsA tragedy in 0s and 1s

Yet forgiveness for innumerable atrocities(and do not think these areBuried - there is a capacityFor painAnd sorrow far greater than our renditions of the earth can measure)Is instantWild they bask about usbahamut, bahamutdelighted in the companyOf our awkward framesFor we are boundAs they are freeAnd yet the strands of our webEncircle their oceanIn a slender nooseCould we pronounce a sentenceIn delphinese?Nay, a white noise death knell

Page 14: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Hailstone Tetris

I know evil, I know goodI know fever, and fevered loveI know passion, I know painI know surrender, I know blameI know hurt and I know furyI know judgement with no juryI know stress and I know beautyI know the burdens of my dutyI know fear, I know squalorI know what it is to dwell in horrorI know dread and I know dreamsI know lives open at the seamsI know chaos and I know peaceI know the traps, I know releaseI know the know, I know the whyI know I can't and I know I tryI know the desperate desire to belongI know the singer, I know the songI know what it is to kill somethingI know the take, I know the bringI know I know, I know nothingI know I know I know nothing

Page 15: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

K™

The room inhalesLike some flimsyPop culture reference to cocaineGelid gloom underRose glowAnd stardom dreamsFractured brains entrained to desecrateThe vanity of namesVice reams, echoed coughsOf hollow laughterImpregnate the stagnant airAnd, in answerGlaucomic eyes but stareTo empty blind spotsDistantCatatonicUnreachable

Page 16: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

The Meat factory

This is about karma, with a large nod to Roald Dahl who no doubt would have approved.

Moments before demiseAn intervention,surpriseThe transposition swiftChickenmanMan chickenAn alchemicalInterchange of soulsThe chicken, suspended by clawsOn the abattoir lineSuddenly heads a boardroomTrapped in a fatPre-corpseShades away fromAheart attackEyeballs become beadyAll-perceptiveShrunkMeanwhile, floors belowThe startled CEOIs boundAhead, a rack ofProductsAnd deathBehind, a still-liveBattery line

Page 17: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Muzzle

This is about wanting to tell someone how you feel and failing to do so. I wrote it at Andrew Molera State Park in Big Sur.

Muzzle, what is it that locks your jaws?Dismantles heart cornices, paws about the middenWould I find you at Pfeiffer, wearing leopard skin cuffs?Laughing to the wind another lullaby softIs it then my doom to check each woman's face in the hope of you?And if I found you, Mary, would you still laugh me off?Your injunction permanent, unspoken, non-specificFor is it not the world you keep at bay?Hidden behind your wry, collected, invincible smileMuzzle, why must you protect me always?

Page 18: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Rotting in the green grass

I always feel the same in the Hebrides, a kind of satisfaction of the rural longing I constantly feel. It’s to understand yourself as animal. I can’t cling to it long.

Let my fleshRot in the green grassOf a Hebridean springUntil bladesProtrude from navel, mouthAnd purple flowersGarnish my skullWill island sheep forever grazeUnder shifting skiesFrom Eoropie to BarvasTheir endless chewingA parallelWith our consumptionBetter to lie in the long grassRemember sweet musicAnd real laughterForeverImmune to wind and slaughterFor of what other purpose is this earth?

Page 19: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Tar Swallows & Dunwich

These two poems are about Suffolk, where I grew up. I have a very strange, almost tense relationship with the place. It was the scene of so much beauty and so much strife and both feelings pervade my time there. I wrote these poems several years apart and yet both reference drowning in the mud.

Tar Swallows

Back again and not divertedTo Bognor, or the Pontin’s at Benacre

Glad you found your way acrossThe acres of shingleAnd Orford Ness

Now teach me how to take wingBecause down hereI’m drowning in the tar

Dunwich

Shrike girdled theSlit eyedMarsh hallows, the feather beatencall to gallows

Worth a deft passEnshruddled mistLickered craw, now the tendons stickTo Thumps of silence raw

Slinking moon permitsAn autopsyRevealing sin, Rotted planks tarredLong seaborne scarred

Through marram threadsThe noosePermits, flightless mud dweller skipsAnd under slips

Page 20: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Black Tide

For Mänfred Gnadinger aka 'O Alemán' aka Man

Man was a hermit and sculptor who lived in a small hut on the beach in Camelle on the Costa Del Morte, Galicia. He was German, hence his nickname – 'O Alemán', shortened to simply Man. With the shipwreck of The Prestige in 2002 and the environmental disaster that followed, a black tide of oil overwhelmed his home and the sculptures of his open-air museum. He died shortly afterwards, it is thought from melancholy.

Hull crackedA flowing blackMessageMan waits, unknowingIn the fixity ofStone - his safety beltAppreciableStillness of timeTo wander aloneSand and airHis home

Closer it comesAt dawn he finds a birdA strugglingMessengerObsidian dragmarksAre you sick?He asksHe stoops to helpWithdraws hisCoated fingers

What is this?I have no need forThis sand-stainingBird-hobblingBlacknessHe carries theCormorantBathes itStrokes its feathersCleanPlumage de-oiledIt sitsSerene

The portent birdLungs blockedThen dies

Page 21: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Man criesAmongst his artThe silentSmashingOf a heart

That day dissolvesMorning nextThe slick spreadsAnd hitsHeadlongThe earth is vexedThe tide is deathThen sunriseAt the shoreline

Man regardsHis changeling viewPurity recast anewSullied seaLicking blightedBeachAt the tidemarkHalfdeadHarbingersFlop and flutterIn the oozeToxic matterYellow suits appearand chatterMan takes uneasyFootsteps through the surf

Little bodyAt his heartHis precious stoneCoveredWorld apartHe kneels in the oilInvokes a prayerA saline songTo imploreRespiteThere is noAnswerOnly poisonousChemicalNight

Page 22: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

Austral Symphony

Upon hearing the sounds of the birds as I woke up at my cousin’s house in Australia.

What gauche sounds they make,This reptilian flockA crescendo, part cheese-grater sharpPart mellifluousThey knock, drone on my supine headCaving lesions inAnd challengingThe notion of sweet birdsongFor now, do dadaBecomes a harsh caw-cawand the boundarybetween tone and raking claweroded, splits

Page 23: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

The colour of air

Is it worthwhile to wish the worldTo be less nefarious, less abrupt?To call up some cradleSome garish blanketUnder which to hunkerGenuflecting to the dust

Is it futile to call for peaceTo ask for less perversion, less crime?To climb some multifoliate boughSome blessed trunkFrom which to gestureIdle handshapes at the fog

Is it wrong to make an inquiryTo outline our vile hypocrisy?To conjure up some silken veilSome obdurate cloakBehind which to lingerGlorious corpses in denial

Is it habit now to abrogate the truthTo deal in misnomers, outright lies?To weave some slippery ropeDouble noose the knotDangle twitching by the throatLast words hyperbole

Are we too soft to rot in comfort?To eat maggoty meat, offal richTo build some fecund palaceSome place of reckoningFrom high windows to passOur judgement upon the earth

Page 24: Paper Sky, Blue Moon

The other side of almost

I amBecome shaky groundSewn through with fault linesEarthquake proneI could have beenBut never wasI amNo longer a rockSet about with fracturesAt risk of collapseI almost wasBut never quiteI amA house of cardsBuilt on poor foundationsLiable to fallI wanted toBut never did