READINGS OF THE WORK BY PHILIP HARVEY

Look on my works, ye mighty, and design Something better, titanic iceberg heights Of glistening city alight at nights Avalanche buildings in the dark. Incline Your blindside ego to sign off in oil, Ramp up more freeways running on empty; Your campaign slogan in gold ‘Don’t Tempt Me!’ Replenishes the thin silicon soil. Front your edifice with moonshot command Perpendicular in particular, Pigeons alone will twitter at your hand.   Inscribe the words tomorrow will pity, Contradict as enemy turns ruler, Leaving space for invaders’ graffiti.

  History is a nightmare from which I Am trying to awake. A wake that I Repeat incomplete for me and for you, The uncomprehending unending you. Sending you best wishes, The Author. He Finds his tongue just in time, the very he Coping copying the reasons for she Who returns resists relates recurs. She Who turns cursed existence great; into we Awake comprehending that we are we; With reasons apprehending anew you – Others’ mothers fathers dreaming up you Who every day wakes gratis the world. They Read kaleidoscope grammar books of they.

The colt from old regret that got away Made hay while the sun shone, sowed its wild oats, Switched midstream, whatever floated its boat, Lucky enough finding out the hard way. Regret, being regret, studied its bet. What-ifs and how-comes absorb and bother It’s a horse of another colour Wishing it all back, assessing the debt. There was movement at the station the word Getting out about these shenanigans. “Horses bolted.” “The worm, the early bird.” Youth will have its way, say the old masters Longing for that ride of a lifetime again As they put themselves out to pasture.

Time will say nothing but I told you so, Partner out again all night on the tiles, Meaning in his jokes and his breakfast smiles. The way it will be, the way it can go. Wars start and wars continue and wars stop Words hold up, are crossed out, resurrected They stand in for truth, are redirected Speaking of yesterdays when old bombs dropped. Still your words still us, me and millions. Your books are read, your sins vermilion. Cigarettes calming, red wine Chilean. English of yours, English that is ours Setting out a pattern of the hours, Setting suns gone down on the old powers.  

I heard a fly buzz when it died. Search me how it happens, I’ve tried: It’s tired, it’s soft, it’s Friday. Science just wasn’t my forte. Similarly, my devotions Equate the wind with the oceans. No proof, just a solemn feeling When it roars above the ceiling. Once I looked deep into his eyes. Their rare colour was a disguise. Small are questions. Why him? What for? My theme is big, etched on scrimshaw. Thus I stay in my wooden room Leaving outside to share and zoom.