Richard Sinnott - English Actor

Poems 3

Theology: Salvation's pimp to Bliss.
We breathe and, thinking, seek to qualify.

Yet Man and God how must you answer this;
which more alive, the foetus or the fly?

Though it be quashed, electrocuted, cursed,
in breath and thought the latter can attest

it has, and by itself, engaged the first;
its cogs, if rudely simple, turn behest.

Yet when the foetus meets a summer's end,
this fatty maggot with its off-line pain

draws allies, paused from swatting, to attend
its empty lights and unconfigured brain.

All life is bias, Human reason cold;
for dead is dead no matter how it's sold.

If those who see a circle as a square -
creating corners with a gladed eye -

considered for a moment when and where
they nearly live and, wearier, will die,

would it occur; this self-deluding ill
in 'paring Heaven to these earthly years?

The grave is not the end they say, but still
precipitate their optic's G and Tears.

And many of them speak with poppied lip
of changing, whilst they're here, the worst of things,

yet always, somehow, seem to let it slip ..
perhaps they merely like the way it sings.

Then on their graves, between the lines, concur:
how lacking substance living people were.

Were you the blossom of the leave I saw
when eyes were diamond and our breath blew sweet?

My lenses now drip caring and are raw
and every word I utter's one I eat.

Were we a truth, or but a dog-day dream
of yearning, damseled on a folly's crown,

whose plaited lures to gin tomorrow seemed
ill-thrown?; none climbed, none but the years knew down.

For as you danced me naked in the storm,
anointing us in balm - the woman's hoy -

complacently illumined in his form,
ah, yet the man lay drowning of the boy.

You asked me if I loved you; not to lie.
My answer then will dress the hour I die.

in city edens scented with his bliss
did pan e'er flutter a more luring pipe
than roses stirring to the zephyr's kiss
and peaches fallen ripe?

for men, as midges, gather in the dusk -
the gloaming air bedewing passion's bait -
and hover on the archangelic musk
that hums at heaven's gate

and women twain, of instincts gemini -
in grecian song and sapphic measures versed -
must yearn amongst her fruitfulness to lie
and give suck and be nursed

she's dreaming now, aloft on scarlet wings
and every sigh condensing to a sea;
the deep upon whose reef a siren sings ..
but not, in life, for me.


	MORE OF MY POEMS ...


	Thirty Nine And .. I Hate It When .. p22 p23 Could Life's Sole Office She Killed Me Then p25 p26

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