A Poem to the late Pope
The Loaded Dog

There is a silence where angels fly

There is a room in which
we all sit, our hair
tucked behind our ears
and our eyes looking
in mirrors. Here

We contemplate the
waiting and suffer
like separate clouds
roaming the horizon
like drizaboned ghosts
aching for rain.

We walk we sit
we drink and we write

like lost money
or virginity we are missed
only briefly

There is a room in which
we sit at bars and are served
fresh fruit perhaps
found dead perhaps
still breathing. And there we sit

pretending to be mountains
unaware of where
the walk will lead.
We lift cups to hands in silence.

We dial the numbers of the dead.

We answer questions
with the drop of a hand
(preferring to talk quietly amongst ourselves).

We acknowledge:

the faces by the stairwell
and want for others to join us.

There is a room
in which we run out of money
and carve pathways
for those present
to spit in and lament.

There are cranes
there are birds
there are thoughtful words

while we pretend to be dead
while we memorise death
while we dial the numbers of the dead.

We grow beards
and masturbate daily

We turn twigs in our fingers
and rest our thumbs on ladybird wings.

We grow our hair
and cut it short again in fury
we breathe with the slaves
because we are slaves.

We liken existence to stone
we stone our memories
till ecstasy recedes.

We sleep till noon and after.

We forget to leave our rooms.

We tend to clover between our grip
we smell the leaves
we watch
we are watching you.

We sit and try to clear
our minds of the worthless
and discover everything simply is.

We create churches
and worship the room
that enters with insight.

We find it hard to slumber
since we remember our dreams.

We work on fallacy
we destroy the canopy
of conventional social interaction.

We read book after book
we devour eyes
and dedicate eye contact
to those who are mourning...

We mourn

for the previous light
for the loss of art
for the waste of life
for the lives others choose to live.

We are all around you
we don't swim in bundles
we don't walk in groups
we don't return calls

we don't believe in 'togetherness'
though we wish to be together.

We believe in spirit
we believe in the affinity of the sacred
we pray for the destruction
of ingrown souls.

We pray for growing older
than everyone else

We discredit manifesto
We wait for Godot,
we are the hollow men.

We despise cars
we breathe open air
we build the bridges
we light the fire
we sing the odes
we die young
we drink the water
we always thought Olympus would return

so we could dance and drum
drum out the woeful
bring in the wise

There are cranes
there are birds
there are thoughtful words

while we pretend to be dead
while we memorise death

Here we sit

pretending to be mountains
unaware of where
the walk will lead.

While we pretend to be dead
while we memorise death

like lost money
or virginity

we will be missed only briefly.