various ragged fringes

part one

 

(various ragged fringes, Turpin. 1975)

Note: Lineation no longer resembles the original, possibly avant-gardist original typescript, which did not transfer faithfully to this website. Times have moved on, and I go back to a more conventional layout.



Carreg Ddu


Waves breathe with wit of silver froth,
Sea hits wet rock,
My loins relax,
They were impelled by rather funny forces,
Rather ticklish, like the furry clouds.

The cape sets a firm face to windward
And withstands the brunt of various humours
Stuck as he is so far out into rough sea
As hands can stretch the fingers of the land.

The verbal waves play out the wit of silver froth,
And still it tickles,
Laughter in the mirth of blue release.

A rush of blood to things,
A rush of things to mind against
Promontories of obduration,

Laughter so I can't repress it,
Sprouts of seafoam up my trouserleg
From up a gully silly as a rush of tongues of foam
To lick a cave with fires of mirthy piss
And froth it up until it's time to be returning home
Who was intrigued by literal gist and is
Exhausted by the sadness and the fun of it.






A Spire

The fall of words through air attracts me to
The Time they work in, building tombs of words:
No Time in dull cloisters;
No Time of Agitation.
The quiet on this stepladder is quite unknown.

A secrecy: Of what have things to do with
Grey sky, slate gret sand. And
What has this to do with that or with
A cloud in the gleaming eye if a materialist


Who follows his material into form
Brought through the dark on the wings of a gleam,
Making one dive, two dives,
Making gain in material,
Things, gold rings from the dark blue-green
Turbulent obscure sea through
A see-through chiaroscuro
Chemise of an afternoon
And bearing them aloft,
Bright white in the sun
As the arctic tern does fetch her
Flashing whitebait.

Carving stone, a thought broke silence,
Burst and spent itself in air
And he returned to work in silence,
Scraping stone in dull persistence,
Listening to the rhythm of his stroke.
And grey clouds encircle all his aspiration,
Any building,
A Cathedral in a rainy field.
And breaking, took his tool from stone,
And sighed, aspired,
Thought rose and fell in air.

His source, an arctic tern:
From where she comes:
From air she plunges;
Rises quickly.



Tin Silver Copper Green

Tin in the Bowels of this Angle,
Stuffed with it,
So much so it overfloweth,
Watereth the world.

Venus riding in the sky pale fading green
To sunset Blue:
Brittania, Brigid, riding on the Copper
In the sky of metal prices,
From the blue into the dark Blue.

There are fairies in this corner,
Full of them,
So festivity spills on grass and spreads
Out from a horn.

A King aroused by the Festivity
And aching: What is Going On?
She soothes his brow.

A King rose in a daze, flushed and unable.
What  Is  Going  On??
He snorted and he stamps his foot.
The Man is a Majestic Bull.

The knife was brandished and it glinted in the sun.
The silence in this spave is nice.
A simple slit. The thing is done.

The sun is staring in the sky.
A trumpet bowed.
Venus Triumphant as Victoria on my body Arched
Rejoicing in the battle and the Blood.
Tin Pot Archangel
Blasting silence like a Dome
Like Kingdom Come.

When I came from the show they were still dancing
In a corner of the playhouse.
I'm going home.
The show was just a glint of tinsel
But the space that opens out
Alloweth me to enter in
A sacred tin.

Blood in the Vulva.
Stuffed with it.
Blood in the Salt of Earth.
Blood in a Silver Bowl.

Heart
Explicitly displayed
As lacerated by a ragged sun.



ACTS

Of players on a green field
Among rosebuds and spectators.
A quick scene fled
Before Death
Comes on in the last
Act
While the light allows the children make
Their frantic movements in the park
A free space to make haste in.

Nightfall marks another day.
Children gather light while they may.
















          

     



AXE

To get in touch with the Materieal World!
All I touch turns to spirit gold
Or precious goblets hedged by guilt,
Blood crossed by skimming infants
Quick as thought.

To get in touch with the material world
I mowed the lawn.
The sun was shining and it was a sunny afternoon,
And I was trying to get in touch with it.
A gleaming axe was what I thought it was.
There was a table on the lawn.
A book lay open on the table.
It was The Book of Thoth. Alas.
It was a common sunny afternoon.

The sea was not so very far from me.
Venus would rise soon.
Metal etc.







A Waterfall Sways


The body, the abiding form of a fall of water
Sways in a fit of wind, is falling down
Into an intermingling play of sea and cards,
In a rain of silver pellets,
While a hawk in hover id above and over
Coastal down. My pale blue eyes
Reach back into the sky she hovers in.

The reach is the stretch of her claw
For what isn't there.

The cove has the foaming mouth of her mirth
At my oral obsession. But the white of bubbles
Has my laughter at the sirens of the skerries:
The slivers of sun on blue;
The air thrown up in sprouts of water
Into dizzy air the seagulls ride on.

I woke on a cliff of gorse and heather
Hearing myself say,
Oh! What a bright afternoon's
Deep blue sea of dreams!
And staring at a dimming blue
Till clouds crowd in and close the hole
With bitter or forgetting
Oh! What a bright afternoon's
Deep yawns of sea dreams
Full of accidental incidents:
A scatter of cards; A chatter of teeth;
A dance of silver chances,
Spattering on wet-mossed rock
Until my fate is wet with it.














 


   



Spray of piss blown back
Along the wind direction


Phantasmal RockForms Stand

In DeepBlue Sea;

A Sparrow Hawk hung in a right
Blue After
Sex

The Temperature of Day
Rises to Fever
And I cannot be distinguished.

We've nothing but the terrors
Woven into the design.
The water passed through a sieve
Until a sieve arrives to save us
Only the skin is residue.

The blue is blue and fills the bay
In a horizontal way.
The blue has been squeezed from a tube.

The yellow beach-head is distinct in all a life
Until a sieve arrives to save us
Various ragged fringes of the ocean all applaud
A tricky card.










A ragged carreg
Skerry sticking out
A cragged blackness
Points from blue to blue.

People gathered as tobaccosmoke intracted,
Flung and scattered infinitely
And connections between likeminded people.
In fish, in clothes, in common goods,
Have to force to make connection with the centre
To survive, because
Things flow so
After willing what you want.

Superstition supposes
Some cause ejects us out
As turds or expectorate liquorice.

Secret sectarian moles
Intertwine our position
With harps and jewsharps and harmonicas
Entertaining commission
From kings' rings of tin
And the moisture in clouds;
Sheeny slices of earth you dig roots in;
Your face in damp wind;
The flap in your face of damp washing;
The slurry and sliding of earth
Across a shock, an electric shock
Of news.

Hairs raised to stand on end.
Delighted and expectant comet raised to shock
Disappointed falls to ruin
Down to the groundless ground
In rain that is rain of stars
In a shower to soak with water
All over the earth.

Disillusioned celtic farmers fringe
To the edge of a fated social
Compact, Contract, Continent or Comet:
Clues to unlock like keys a course,
A cause of leys.

To disregard the clause or fate of Sentence;
To bring down the wrongs of Iron
Or Orion on the throng of happy watchers
Of the show, and have them cringe.

It's a kind of resistance, Emotional Truth,
To inroads made in the Name of Greed:

A Creed.
An Original Empire.





The visible kingdom of things that are


Seen by seabirds
A different coast:
Eye for wave-glint, fish-turn,
Flash of fish-flesh,
Swishes in a blur
Among black rocks where billows crash
In blue all through the still duration
Of a very fine afternoon.

Fish fly up in the bird-beak
Alarmed. With the fright in his eye,
In his unuttered call.

There's the colour of clouds towards evening,
A worn, a fringed, a faded sky;
The sinple blue is of the beauty of the world;
Gives rise to expecttation of a further out,
Another:

Cloud-banks on the sea-rim.

Fingers rub the ripe wheat.
An eye on clouds' buildup of cumulonimbus
Reflected in black pupil-lake.

There are sould in the air around sea-rock.
He feels dizzy looking down.
The souls pass out from rock to rock.
He who rides the clouds leads his throng through
Illusion

As birds migrate across water
Slip into those waters or return.

All his mind is out with seabirds:
Terns that decorate
The margins of a thought.

    






On to Part Two

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