spare me

the vanity of those who seek to end history
by scorning the claims of the ghost story.

We who live by mystery
have no business trespassing
on the last myths
of the blue universe.

Take the late mist of a dying princess:

the torrid blush, the fluttered lash
the camera flash
the visual challenge
of the smoky glass;

the broken heart's commodity.

The wounded driver a flame
in the eyes
of an astonished girl.

(field of landmines tiny legs a mirage on distant sands)

We who live by mystery wait.
‘I's cast open, eyes half closed
while the lights smoke in the tunnel
and the car's a wreck
the heart a brain
the palace shattered glass,

beauty shy of time.


In this particular kingdom of the blind
the one eyed man is too busy
shepherding to brace the reins
of a king,

warding off the accidents of human traffic,
the stumbling patsies of misplaced trust,
another lusty collusion of genocide and fun.

Yet a mile high above
in the flight paths of the blind
a stewardess advises her passengers

‘At the command: brace! place your head
between your legs and
pray - or trust at least

for the plane is losing
altitude fast
we all may be obliged to acknowledge soon the moment
in which
even the Beautiful People
won't be leaving
good-looking corpses

But in the locker above your head
you will find confirmation that

even the visually challenged
will have every right
to have seen and not seen the fire at the end of the universe
which the scriptures say
will burn seven times hotter
than the sun.’

Ade Jackson

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