When thunderheads spiral into space, then a wild drome
Is nailed inside a church-chidden city
To move, a masking venus will suck naves from
Bound devils and angelled sleep
Trilled trees dip laxative leaves inside a berried grave
And starry silver men scatter a swelled sun
Against luminaries and liquid statues?
More at https://jimbellamy.simplesite.com.
if i could stop the time, then there would be a way to join the faceless
child in fields of yesterday, and there would be such dreams for children
to unfold; dreams of endless burning in meadows manifold.
if i could stop
time, then trendless youth i’d see, and every trendless season would be a
gallow tree, and every gallow tree would be a place for breath; a place
where endless burning would marry my behest.
if i could stop time, if only
time were mine to cease, then everywhere i’d find an eastern lake of
peace, and peace would drown me kindly and peace would drown me well. if i
could only stop the time, then youth should thrill and swell.
time, i’ve
seen u murder the best of mine and me- now is the time to marry to the
times that cannot see- & i shall see time cease, for time is seldom mine,
and in that time must cease, my mind shall tow the line, and in that time
must cease, all love shall cease to shine.
if i could stop the time, if i
could only live, then desecrated madrigals should celebrate to give, and
time should cease forever, and time should learn to blow a kiss, and time
should earn its pleasure, and know how much a child is missed?
More at https://jimbellamy.simplesite.com.
ahh
out of the death in the sun, when time was out of love
and the cares of the countless soul
lay riven in the seed of this zero earth,
over this barbed law and the war that comes hereafter
to dedication to the self and the salt moon in burning,
man who is woman denies no rain.
ohh
for the heart and the rent child and the mourning star
and the spurs of the world gone over
where Love knows the river cannot run
nor shall the fablers in their dark rooms of booming
break the silent tomb nor charge the signs of light
neither can the stars declaim their shine.
and
as much as the world that breeds for summer’s aether
will never shape what murder gasses night,
the death in the sun in its never-ending run
might purr for dreams or else deny the winter’s rage.
and the wracked words of the birds gone blind
decry this sullen death or else go mad.
More at https://jimbellamy.simplesite.com.
And no-one can deny
That love is more tedious than lies
Seeing the mirror of the third
When fearing time’s cries
Creates behaviour a mind can’t stir
I have slowed in my swagger to find
That death cannot ever ride
The waves of its occidental sea
The nut-strewn road and its cavalry
Refine lust and its plans.
Coins in hands work for a life
And regal banks are sworn
Dead by a majesty of man-and-wife
This thurible holds intense
Incense; so too, starved tears
Weep from their command
A mute space sears the bent
Cities are altogether shent
And no-one can deny
That love is more tedious than lies
The blind fo’csle inside this brain
Must swear till death dies?..
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.
they must rise, make for the strange rooms
where madmen dandled with
the sadness of the coke-filled wounds
which sang and sang all night
and the mad must appear salved
by those old-type native foolish things
which don the jeweller’s hocked
and sin-beleaguered rings
and the scene was direly set
to feature fools who should not
dive in the pools (once called the lakes)-
the stage was cold and would not
darken the faces of death’s cot…
demurely, night must swallow day?
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.
Still going, all of it, still crowing!
(Ears to speakers, that sound of
The sky when it meets the sea!)
Tamed by noise, enormous airs
Grasp at a strangled voce machine.
A final tune, rigidly bangs where
The pleasures of music burn.
Still going, all of it, still flowing-.
The groups, the skiffling hands!
I search for sand and find a
Seaside pearled with purple tones.
The clear water smooths pebbles
With proud tunes roving from
The tunes of a dune-moon. Is it
Sense to find a radio attuned
To the shriekings of jazz-rain?
Still going, all of it, still going!
(Ears to tweeters, the woofers
Of a sky which sings for clothing.)
Raised by tongue-fire, gigantic strains
Drum aside drakes and break
Opened opuses at fragrant drains
O the pleasure of musics storm
The buttons of pure pain. Ahh!!!
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.
I neglect nothing –
Your furled scent, the bitter tea,
The merciless maxims spurting
Diamate into the fire.
I conclude us both, like a Will –
The one impressed is me,
And you are filigree wrought,
Your stare as kvetch as desire.
(Now you must own no friends –
With your head howled back,
Like a sightless toy, like
A figurine, you must seem closed.
Childless, your mouth is contorted,
Splintered, epileptic – mine
Is an ovum, disposed
As an idol on a grave).
You placed a cigar to my lips –
I, laughing, put out the fire,
Congruous and calm. Yes,
I recollect babies and flowers:
A slap about the face of death.
And then you quietly rocked
From side to walled side and moaned
Like a gale of sadness starting.
More at https://www.jamesbellamy.org/.