Bow Of The Littoral Cave by Grant Tarbard

Being in the cave is a delusion
I decorate with the jewelled hornet
Pages of banned books and pornographic
Magazines that caress the weed calm brim.
I’ve abandoned my life to this moment,
Morning is the very first instant of
Time, the sun is my balloon I harness
To the debris of wrecked brigs unfurling
Its thousand little wings upon my wild
Eyed weathered face. My bread is a broken
Image of bread, my wine is a patchwork
Of condensation and the blood of fish
I catch. The bedrock has formed from smashed art,
The stalagmites are toppled statues of
Deposed kings, their cut off noses all crowd
About me and make music out of the
Darkness, a Rococo requiem of
The mysticism of all of my amens
Echoing about my blind hermit walls.
This is where government is done, withered
Through veins of gold. The water opens up
To me in marbleised flocked waves; the sea is
Fastened, it is the landscape that’s moving.
I scoop holes out of the air, my cheeks are
Filled with stories that paper the windows
Of diffused lights lit under gorse yellow.
Be careful of the night, it’s music plucks
Rose petals and drowns with timpani stars.

Grant Tarbard is the editor of The Screech Owl and co-founder of Resurgant Press. His first collection Yellow Wolf is out now from WK Press.

 

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