Selected Poetry and Prose by Richard C Mather

Zechariah

2011-11-24T10:15:00.001-08:00

The brickwork is broken, the gardens are in disarray,
The roof tiles have slipped, some have fallen.
The iron gates swing free from their hinges.
The earth beneath my feet is possessed by evil spirits.
How the giants have fallen! How the angels have vanished!
Gone are the generations that once stood their ground.
Bright were their faces. Noisy was their talk, their childish laughter.
Everything has changed. War, plague, flood, drought
Have left their mark: their legacy is a land bereaved of love.
And now the world grows desolate,
No longer ornamented with flowers, fields, lakes, trees.
Where are the sweet birds, the shining animals?
The covenant is broken and the Lord’s blood has dried up.
He has wept his last tear. And I have wept mine.

As a priest without a shrine, I no longer seek
Favour from Heaven. My fate is fixed like the stars and moon.
I have buried my father and all the prophets before him.
My sorrows stir in the rising heat of each pale dawn;
Wind, rain and sand stir my memories into wakefulness
But I would prefer to forget what has been seen and heard.
Friendless I come to this ruin where water sings in the gutter.
What happened to these walls that once stood like the mountain temple?
What caused my Lord to remove his presence and go into exile?
Life has come and gone as if horse and rider never existed,
As if surf and shore never closed over our enemies.
The iron core is broken, the oceans give no water.
The sky, bleached white, is unhinged from the sea’s horizon
And rots like a beached whale.

Exodus 20:21

2011-11-24T10:15:00.000-08:00

‘Moses approached the thick darkness where God was’
— (Exodus 20:21)

God is the black chasm
at the heart of the cosmos,
or to think of it another way,
the snuffing out of life
on the edge of creation.
We usually think of God as
light but I think of
God as darkness,
a profound,
glittering darkness,
an abyss of Being,
from where
creation is expelled
and one day
must return.
We talk about God as
presence but I think about
God as
absence, a God
whose best miracle is to
vanish and go
into hiding
either in the middle of things
or way out on the brink.
He is a secreted God
who, when
you find him
at the edge of space
or in the depths of
the polar ice caps,
or sheltered under a tree
in the driving rain,
conceals you beneath his
thick black cape.
Or enfolds you in his
enormous brooding wings,
(black as crow feathers);
or purges you to a cinder
in the burning foliage
of his undying love;
or lays you to rest
at the centre
of a supernova
just before it explodes.

Moses’ descent

2011-11-24T10:12:00.001-08:00

When the sun slips down
You must go, Moses,
Between the poplars and the elms,
Past the dying fruit trees
To where a heavy reeking damp fills the nostrils
And rotten vapour fills the lungs.

Go down, Moses, to the shore
Where the two rivers join
And become one.
There you must dig a pit in the sand
One cubit in length and breadth
For the Lord your God.

Go down, Moses,
Way down in Egyptland
Tell old Pharaoh
To let my people go.

And in that pit
Pour honey mixed with milk,
Sweet wine,
Crystal clear water and flour,
The blood of a ram and a ewe,
The promise of a red heifer.

Moses, do not be afraid
When the dead come out to meet you,
All the shady patriarchs and blind Homer.
Call out for Abraham,
Offer him blood,
Commune with him,
Take from him his strength, his promise.

When Israel was in Egyptland
Let my people go
Oppressed so hard they could not stand
Let my people go.

Moses, seek the answer
As to how you should redeem
My people from narrow thoughts
And lead them to their rightful land:
Canaan or Ithaca
It does not matter.

It is the journey that matters
Or the promise of better times.

No more shall they in bondage toil,
Let my people go;
Let them come out with Egypt’s spoil,
Let my people go.

In the bleak north

2011-05-11T15:25:00.000-07:00

I

In the bleak north
the God-in-black
has his back
to me,

his head half-
turned to one
side
to avoid my gaze.

Just like Kerouac’s Dr Sax
In a black shroud and hat.

So I had found him!
But I knew a blink of an eye
or a blizzard of snow
would carry him away.

II

Sometimes I see him
in big black bird,
spider,
seal pup,
iron,
stone.

My daydreams brim
with his ghosts.
Our imagination
a never-ending holocaust
of car wrecks and knives.
In our youth
we had the power
to roll back rivers,
and peel the stars from the spheres.

There he is
in the wind and the snow,
the very north of my compass.
All the while
the tumour
of the devil
presses hard
on my brain.

I close my eyes
for a moment
to exorcise the pain
and he is gone.

Copyright 2011 Richard C Mather

Mother hen

2011-05-10T12:49:00.001-07:00

I rule the bloody roost, she cries
(the power glistening in her eyes)
And I shall watch her every move
And peck her should I not approve.

My weaponry is in my beak
So just you watch how you speak
To me, the mother hen, who rules
This bloody roost of fools.

I know what is right and true
And I’ll clip her flight wings if I have to.
If I want your help I’ll tell you when.
Do not question this mother hen.

Dare you speak, unbroody hen?
You dare to challenge me again
On how I must raise my little chicks
And how to spot their sneaky tricks?

How could you know what is best
When you have no chicks at your breast?
So get back to your childless den
And question not this mother hen.

And if peck her till she bleeds,
Till she oozes ruby beads,
Then that’s my business, so stay away
And come again another day.

Remember this, she is my charge –
Maternal duties I must discharge
Until she’s pale and weak.
That is why I must use my beak.

Do you think I fear my little chick?
Yes, she may be smart and quick
But I know better, I always will,
I have the power to make time still

By keeping her beneath my wings.
I’ll keep her there and if she sings
I’ll clip her beak and cramp her feet,
My little chick of pale white meat.

A poem in praise of obsessive-compulsive disorder

2010-06-08T01:55:00.001-07:00

I

OCD my old friend
More than a decade now
We have been together
Like husband and wife

You keep me safe
By keeping me afraid
You know best
You keep me coming back for more

You make gifts of my thoughts
And I reward you with time
Nothing in my life
Is as important as you

II

OCD is a god to me
From one day to the next
I provide rituals
Perform sacrifices

And in return
It shelters me from danger
Both worldly
And supernatural

III

Sometimes I forget you
And live without your rules
Forgive me, my king –
I am misguided

I am so thankful
For your attention
So thankful
To have you in my life

I love how
You shift and shape
A big storm
From so little sand

I love the way
You shove a finger
Up the ass of reality
And say fuck you

IV

It has been
A wonderful life
Full of magic
And incantations

And days spent
Together
Wrapped up
In each other’s silly ways

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Psalm

2010-06-08T01:49:00.001-07:00

How to prevent
The unravelling of my earthly life?
Such a huge effort and so tiring.
It is like piling in spilled intestines
After an exchange of fire.
Or it is like a fizzy storm within,
Threatening to overwhelm this little boat of sailors
And drop them into the sucking sea.
But they keep on rowing regardless.

The moon is big tonight
And it has been raining all day.
Will tomorrow be the same? Yes, of course.
Life is a huge effort and so tiring.
There is a dreadful vacancy at the heart of things,
At the heart of me, which is still empty space.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

A subject without a code

2010-06-08T01:39:00.001-07:00

Gazoom. A new section is opening up.
The undertones of black subterranea.
A choice subject with no code.
The awkward man exits the door
and passes through with no comment.
Ulacks, ulacks. Fresh green air.
Tap. Tap. Dripping water smells roses.
A fallen wet petal on the flagstones.
In the market-space, China rockets
like a datum over internet protocol.
His mind is at gunpoint, smokes.
It's not Tuesday, not when where.
When does it start? I may be a little late.
That's excellent. I should be there. A beep. Fweep.
A face from the fourth dimension. The face I was born with.
A special occasion for me. The loss of face.
The use of faith to save face.
White girls push white babies past white windows.
The loss and gnashing of teats.
Still turning in the void. A material breach in the world
of manifested objects.
A voice you hear struggling in the branches.
The hairy branches slashing the face of the moon.
A blood-drop swells and sweats in the corner of her mouth.
A heavy loss for the junipers.
The roots are turning in their earth-graves, pulling soiled threads.
A strange time to yawn and count problems.
No suffering / no desire.
A bleak tongue to speak.

Give us a call and I'll be waiting.
A delicate balancing act between formlessness and colour.
Sorrow and emptiness on motorways are only a pair of ears to operate with.
I'm not the kind of hero you took me for. My God, I've ruined the disruption
committee.
Object selected, submitted, examined, rejected and exposed.
How much did you find out about yourself? Yes, that's a surprise.
Asonic normality cannot be helped. (Nevertheless it can be presumed.)
You think the wrong thoughts and regret it.
Something is up for recycling.
Resubmit the wrong question and the averages will be down, which is a bad
forecast and is raining.
Bones rotting under canvas umbrellas is the new model market of corrupt
bodies. The financial romance of death.
Where was X yesterday? X was visiting the tail-end of the nation.
'A matrix of geological DNA': I read it in a magazine and regret it none. Just a
little cynical.
The case is made and the trees are rich and full in their perpetual greenery.
Put down the receiver and run: I'll be waiting at the final lake.

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

Discourse in the garden

2010-06-08T01:37:00.000-07:00

An olive grove. Night. The sound of approaching footsteps.

HE: ‘Swounds! A dark day for strong flowers and cool breezes. Can you deny it?
PETER: Are you spreching to me, sir?
HE: I am, almost certainly. [Sits beside PETER.] Call me I am.
PETER: Ha! Welcome. Call me anything you like. I’ll deny it later.
HE: Ho! I’ve only lived the one life. Where next? Should I go on?
PETER: Always going on. Even when you’re half dead. I can’t understand the manifold reasons for
taking one more breath. We always wonder, don’t we? Never get any further on. Up the road and
over the hill, far and away.
HE: You are upset? [He slips further down his chair, really slouching, like Tom Paulin.]
[THOMAS materialises from nowhere and takes his place beneath the tree.]
THOMAS: I find this dialogue very moving.
PETER: All my ideas go to waste. Sitting beneath this lousy olive tree. So much nature. Always so
much.
THOMAS: And yet never quite enough.
PETER: Been here for 20 minutes and not a single happening.
HE: Sixty-three seconds of gravity. Hardly even felt it. The downward pull of the bottomless pit. God’s
greatest creation.
PETER: Bless his Heavenly Soul.
HE: May the angels of paradise wring his bloody neck.
THOMAS: May the angels of paradise sling this bloody wreck.
PETER: Well said. Hail the revolution, the turning of the fiery particle. Lo!
HE: The horror. The upswing of terrible wheels turning up.
THOMAS: Come on, now, speak proper English.
HE: The language of Shakespeare and Milton?
PETER: Of Wordsworth and Arnold?
HE: Of man’s first disobedience. The horror. The horror.
THOMAS: The hollow sham of language. Very moving.
PETER: Let’s all move. [They move positions].
[2 mins, 45 secs. later]
PETER: I needed that.
THOMAS: As did I. I am certain of it. And yet, are we any better off?
HE: A change is as good as a vest. A twitch of the thread, a pull of the string and the knots come
undone.
PETER: Pffff. Is that all you have to say?
HE: That is all. It’s all that’s worth waiting for, anyhow.
[A breeze blows through the branches.]
PETER: Did you feel that? It was the spirit. The Pneuma.
THE HOLY GHOST: [Disguised.] Yes, it is I. In I come, out I go. Yes, I am it. It writes. I will write a
supplication. Here. Now. As follows.

And in that hall
there was a cruel prison (which men don’t call fayre),
a place of wasted time. [Stops.] No, wait...
Life is not growing like a tree and love
is not to be had.
God, our help, consider us when we pass.
God, whose shrine stands in that hall, receive these Persons.
Autumn has come within our imaginings.
Until you come, your children will wander,
too excitable.
It is the limes dreaming the sun or always the same heart,
always.

PETER: Heaven ‘elp us orl.
THE HOLY GHOST: I thank you.
HE: A superb supplication. That’ll be in all the best books.
PETER: Better get out the critics.
THOMAS: Are you referencing to me?
PETER: And what of it? Is there nothing you can say that is not.
HE: Now, boys. Let’s be in the affirmative.
PETER: I’ll try again. Is there nothing you can that is.
THOMAS: [Confused.] Aghadash! Pishmushtiniski! Kakakaka!
HE: Much better. Polytongued. The Spirit is within him.
PETER: And all around him. Don't need wood or stone.
HE: He is blessed. Look, he has the face of an heretic.
THOMAS: Kakakaka.
PETER: It almost brings a tear to my throat.
HE: A veritable choker. The Spirit has him by the ruddy neck.
PETER: Has him by the bloody heck. Lo! a flaming chariot.
HE: I see nothing. Minion thou liest.
PETER: Pardon me. ‘Twas a fault unwilling.
THE HOLY GHOST: I thank you, again. I have done my bit, and now I must leave. [Bows.] I have others
to infect. [To PETER.] I will see you anon. [It fades into the branches and disappears.]
PETER: Anonymous, indeed. The ghost with no name.
THOMAS: Kakakaka.
[Silence.]
HE: Did we enjoy that?
PETER: Let’s see. Enjoy: take pleasure in; have use or benefit of. More the first bit.
HE: A pleasure is as good as a pest.
PETER: [Thinking.] Didlidum. That ghost. What did it say? Something about limes?
THOMAS: No, lions. Lions dreaming in the sun.
PETER: That’d be a goody life.
HE: Yes. Nice and easy. Better to be in the sun than in time of snow. You’ve heard of Benaiah?
PETER: I’ve not had that feeling of satisfaction.
HE: Slew a lion in a pit when it was snowing. And two men who looked like lions.
PETER: The swine. The pig.
HE: The Lord builds and the Lord knocks down.
PETER: A worthy occupation. The wheel of life and all that. Only fair. Nothing lives forever.
[Silence.]
THOMAS: Is it raining or not? Is there nothing on our heads?
[JAMES and JOHN fall out of the tree, curse, stand, dust themselves down.]
JAMES: If it’s raining then you should certainly know. If it is not, then the same rule applies.
JOHN: And if it’s raining then let it rain, and if it’s not, which I believe to be the case, then it follows
that we should not let it rain.
JAMES: Whether we believe it’s raining or not is of little importance. Time marches on, ever impatient.
HE: Yes, and not for the last time.
PETER: I can tell we’ve got a perpetual situation on our hands.
JOHN: Everything we do is perpetual.
JAMES: Yes, every word.
HE: I need to think. You’ve got me thinking. What! This is unprecedented. I must leave you again. [He
wanders into the dark garden. The others look bewildered.]
THOMAS: Pish! He’s not been back long. What next?
PETER: [Picking up a bundle of scrolls.] Let us wait with our eyeballs peeled.
THOMAS: And now?
PETER: [Reading aloud.] And the crowd was parted from the tabernacle; and he said, ‘be bold, Miriam,
for you are to become leonine’, and she did become leonine, like it could have been foreseen.
THOMAS: And that’s one version, good sir. It is to be admitted.
PETER: Let us admit it.
JAMES and JOHN: We admit it.
THOMAS: It is admitted.
PETER: And now?
[Fade.]

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Beneath

2010-06-08T01:36:00.000-07:00

Beneath a red lightbulb
innumerable doves swim as if
in a cold, gold sun.

Birth, creation,
a ruinous origination.
Decomposition settles in.

Bibulous boozers scratch at beer,
flick the air with brown fingers.
Intemperate cuckolds.

“Declare yr bones,”
they say in whispers
thick as honey.

Time is arrested
as the production of long shadows
hushes the brown room,

but not the annelid which eats the dirt
that falls from the shade
like black snow.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Everything adds up to zero

2010-06-08T01:35:00.001-07:00

Zero

Like a lighthouse Zero stands alone,
blinking inside the dark as voices move up
and down the street. The noise pricks his senses.

He lives in pauses, in the held breath
between the ticking seconds. The auras of objects
do not move him. Inertia has shut down the imagination.

Zero sits at the table with the clocks falling.
His heart pounds ineffectually like a muffled alarm
or a silent bell tolling the ocean.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Zero and the anti-dollar

Zero sat still with the anti-dollar
in his scarred palms. The war had begun and
the flu was flying through the air like blood.
Zero felt the poison stir in his lungs.

The television was growing fat with
virulent statistics, hospitals and fire.
He stared through the screen and imagined
a V-sign projected on the far wall.

The anti-dollar sweated in his hands:
it made his veins thicken with potential.
But the earth was breathing in a cold virus.
Zero painted on a mask with chalk; stocked

up on fish and brine sealed in tins; locked
every door and window, and kept a sharp,
fateful eye on the gun case that contained
the remote control and two spare batteries.

The war moaned on: the drive to Baghdad lit
the evening news. Zero sat at a safe
distance, counting the bodies that the flu
had invaded. One midnight, his mobile rang:

it was Dionysus stuck inside
of Hades with the Afghan blues again.
Dionysus said that on the underground
everyone looked like a terrorist.

"The government is the most likely suspect."
Zero put down the phone and let it melt
like a clown's face. He held up the anti-
dollar to a mirror and saw the sick, grey face

of a tight-ass God. Zero bit his tongue, and fell
back as the bullets whizzed passed his ears.
The anti-dollar fluttered to the floor
with a bang. The next morning he awoke in time.

The air was caked with signals from the television.
Voices struggled for dominance. Zero licked
the ricin from his lips and watched the mouths
move up and down like ventriloquist dummies.

"The rapid advance on the capital is incredible
progress," reported a mouth to another mouth.
Remembering that the human race is always
about to fall apart at the crucial moment,

Zero suspended the anti-dollar in front
of the mirror. Its image was a kind of truth.
Zero exhaled and terminated the
picture screen. The poison was wearing off.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Zero thinks again

Lugworms, barnacles ingest
particles of plastic. A brown mist
hangs over Asia.

Philosophy is dead.
China's coastline has gone toxic.
Africa is being looked at.

Zero feeds the fish,
shuts the window,
brushes his teeth,
polishes his shoes,
lock the doors (front and back),
reads a novel,
watches the news.

A bomb goes off in his brain.

Zero gathers his thoughts
and examines each one in turn.
40 per cent are irredeemable.
25 per cent are past their use-by-date and need modernising.
35 per cent are fine for now.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Re-creation

Zero said the wind turbines clustered on a hill.
The breeze crackled like burning fat.
Hydraulic pump coughed in the distance and the

water flowed silver. The windows gleamed like new gold,
the bloom of sun on rooftops.

Zero irrigated the harsh, brown grass,
invented medicine, nursed myths from the fragile egg.
Existence spun out of chaos into form and

an increasing circle of trees spread over the tropical contours.
Zero said that this was good.

Many days passed in anxious contemplation.
Zero went to the lake and stood at the water's edge.
He saw his image grimace like a gargoyle.

Copyright 2003 Richard C Mather

Degree Zero

The spade digs deep and wide,
cuts slovenly squares of turf.
Flesh, hair, clothing, jewellery buried
under damp black matter without ceremony.

Melting in with the mottled brown headstones,
Zero sits now, finished, back to the sun, humped
and heavy, fingers knotted,
eyes bloodless and tired.

His daydreams brim
with aimless human ghosts.
His imagination as history
is endless: each memory
is a new holocaust to be forgotten.
If he wants
he can roll back rivers,
peel the stars from their spheres.
The universe is his recreation.

There he sits, old as the centuries.
The church gate
clangs in the iron wind like a dull bell.
Grave mouths swallow down his grim silence
until their throats
choke
with awe.

Copyright 2002 Richard C Mather

Zero desertus

I found him under the railway arches,
doomed by dark mental forces, with a stem
of vomit in his throat.

Hitman, wrecker, idiot clambered up the broken steps,
looked out across the prospect,
reimagined the tall glass towers and long-necked cranes.

The son and heir of nothing in particular,
he absorbed the rising lights of the city,
sank lifeless teeth into a stiff hand and was reborn for another moment.

Managing decline, he made his way to the river's edge,
saw the world's final code imprinted in the ancient silt
and waded into the cold green water for a closer look.

Copyright 2006 Richard C Mather

Titan Zero

The weight
of the universe
makes a skeleton
out of time.

It is a burden, this weariness.

The curse I cannot recall.

It would take more than forgiveness,
more than love,
to see flesh grow
back on the word.

Copyright 2001 Richard C Mather

The final lake

Hopeless, the messenger
driven up against his own nature
at the end of the universe,
at the final lake.

Other faces drowned here,
are still drowning.
Mouths, shoes fill up with dark water,
contain black expanses.

All roads led to this road.
It is the one road. There is no other.

A tree grimaces. Twisted lips gnawed brown.
A bowler hat, a cane
on the ground.

All equations led to this conclusion.
All the numbers add up
to Zero.

Zero read a broadsheet,
ate bread and honey,
sipped iced tea,
typed a letter,
made a call,
sent a text,
wrote an encyclopaedia,
developed a brand-new post-Marxist theory,
directed a short film about the life of his next-door neighbour.

Zero did everything that could be expected,
and still it was not enough.

Copyright 2006 Richard C Mather

Zero resurrectus

The creature Zero,
for it is he, of decrepit aspect
and unholy breath,
has returned.

O happy day!

A being-after-death
in the best possible tradition,
A fugitive from error.

He has been where everything
adds up
to zero,
and has returned
with a basket of ashes and apples.

"No justice, just forgiveness," he says,
as if he means it.

Hitman, wrecker, saboteur,
a succession of zeroes
toying with the gods.
No aerial kisses for Zero.

Some say he is a master
of mimesis,
a creaturely thing with a foot
in his face.

Others say he is a monster
or a fragmented barcode.
"But I know nothing of monsters of barcodes,"
he remarks, less than honest.

Copyright 2008 Richard C Mather

Zero’s origin

I

Boiling ocean
(pierced by volcanoes exhaling toxic gas)
hides a glowing furnace,
occasionally ruptured by lava.

Up above,
the deadly sun rains down nuclear fire,
bathing the earth in pure heat.

Such an unbearable landscape:
oppressive, breathless, demonic,
a furious rolling of elementary power.

And somewhere, somehow,
Zero is busy being born.

II

Zero is the sea;
in him you can go under.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Zero begins

Zero, a world event wholly of his unmaking, begins:

"Life is a neurosis -
so what is our doctrine?"

Thus spoke Zero,
a heavy drop
from a dark cloud.

O Zero -
You are the most terrible
creature
to walk this planet.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Zero Agonistes

Overman Zero,
he of the quantum bit and monstrous incarnation,
has declared war on heaven.

(It is his special election.)

There he sits -

half-
heroic,
sublime-
ly
pathetic,
eternal-
ly
pregnant,
revelling
in pain
and difference,
plying
his matrix
of unbearable
contra-
dictions.

A holy, unholy, righteous fool,
unable to decohere;
O rude animal, where are your new creations?

There he is -

A god-
like idiot
with a gob
ful of paradoxes
and a lack
of new creations.

Rest now, O Zero, you great entropologist,
and stop teasing heaven
with your slothful excesses.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Zero at the window

Zero sits squat-wise in the squalid iron rain
Sings lusty songs, laughs his head off
Glass-taps his beak inside a broken egg
With the brains spilling out
A heartful of zeroes a handful of empty full stops
A talonful of brackets and commas
Paradoxical offspring of God
O sing me a song Sing me another
O Zero at the window in the rain and wind
Turn, turn again

Copyright 2008 Richard C Mather

Zero in the temple

Who will climb this hill?
And who will stand in this holy place?
I will, says Zero, as if it was a sacred promise

Who will make the ravines full of water?
And who will give sustenance to the animals?
I will, says Zero, as if he meant it.

Who will lay this man in the dust?
And who will preserve this other man’s life?
I will, says Zero, with a rock in his right eye.

Praise Zero in his sanctuary,
Sing of him among the nations,
Rock him to sleep in the cradle of his divided heart

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Zero’s addiction

A blue flash as the virus takes control.
Zero narrows in to find the perfect image, the perfect pose.
Hyperlinks proliferate and explode.
Windows come and go:
New sites, new images, new possibilities...
The same dead feeling

Lost in a myriad world of sex-magic,
Zero travels alone, unknown, helpless,
As the universe shrinks to a bunch of pixels.
Representations of representations -
The world of flesh recreated in binary code.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Little Circle

“The ways of nature will test every nerve”

Zero, with a circle branded on his forehead, examines his series of suits, dismisses half, picks up a shovel and buries several hats beneath the surface.

He dreams of a green being, a blind super-creature, like a man.
Zero wakes and sees his shadow bite down on a black apple, eating the world, consuming it over and again, his paper-thin jaw chomping down.

The creature, the world-will, was the creature Zero.

[Note: Zero’s backwards creature, birthed on Zero’s death-day, deliberately set the conditions for last night’s catastrophe. “It was! Yes, I wanted it thus!”]

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Zero’s depravity

The world is depraved and so am I, says Zero,
who was the world and had become the world,
the rolling world, where everything adds up to Zero.

This is the one road; there is no other.

Zero-man, world-man, half-
way there between the animals and the gods,
but still
animal and god
himself.

No harmony but in unity.

Thus spoke Zero:
I will sacrifice the world and everything in it
but first I must sacrifice myself
for I am the world and I am its depravity.

I own it and I will eat.

(To live truly in the world,
one has to become everything that is in it.)

Copyright 2008 Richard C Mather

Zero becomes as stone

At the moment of death,
Zero becomes as stone…

His bruised bones become as rocks,
Bony shoulders sharp, steep cliffs;

His head a huge mountain summit
Surrounded by fat white cherubs;

Bloody beard and matted hair
Become as forests and wild juicy grasses…

The ground shakes,
Earth cracks open.

Dark sky explodes into wind and rain,
Whitewashing the surrounding landscape…

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Between time (for T.S. Eliot)

2010-06-03T02:52:00.000-07:00

In the between time,
between the first nothing and the not-so-final breath,
is your peculiar fit,
where the fragments kaleidoscope,
reshaping the world in each moment -
a bunch of fractured images.

This is your kind of hell,
a place of bloody recurrence.
We who live
in the slippage
of other people's lives,
and of our own pasts,
can only "slip, slide, perish, cannot stay awake,
cannot stay still".

Her personality an unfolding constellation;
his a constellation of personalities.

Must we be such unfinished creations?
Irresolute bodies
hanging on the scaffold?

Birds hover over
and the summer is over
That is
until
the birds reappear in an almost identical
configuration.

And each of us here again
in our enfolded dramas.

Copyright 2006 Richard C Mather

The Operator

2010-02-08T10:20:00.000-08:00

The Operator

I

In the disposal unit, The Operator soaks his hands in neat ethanol, dries them with a paper towel, sits down on a leather-cushioned chair, and proceeds to eat his sandwich of what looks like human skin, but is probably chicken. The Operator is malnourished: his skin is a dirty, yellow hue; his hands and legs tremble. The disposal unit is in the east wing of a red-brick Victorian hospital, which is to be closed down in less than four weeks. The patients are mainly neurotics, with psychotic leanings. Most of them are chronic and incurable. Due to the impending shut-down (there’s no relocation programme), the patient population is gradually being terminalised. The terminalisation procedure is the brainchild of the newly deceased Dr Edward Zenzuck, formerly The Operator’s superior.

The Operator’s role in the affair is to dispose of each patient’s medical file, clothes, jewellery, belongings etc after their terminalisation has been completed. A growing collection of bulging black bin bags mounts up in corner near the door. The Operator is unsure where to take the evidence. Dr Zenzuck did not have the chance to finalise his instructions; nor has Dr Zenzuck’s successor Dr Stubbs – brought in to oversee the department’s closure – managed to implement a new solution.
On the floor is a paperback book. A yellow-haired woman with feathery wings swings from a trapeze. The Operator puts down his lunch, looks disgusted or in pain. The memory of the dead Dr Zenzuck is creating a lesion at the base of The Operator’s brain. What happened to Dr Zenzuck is an unknown fact. A decreasing circle of staff, however, are in doubt whether there is a fact to be known. The Operator puts down his lunch and grimaces. He is in pain. He opens a small flask containing an unknown beverage. He takes five sips and screws the lid on tight. The Operator kicks the book under his chair and fantasises about his next employment opportunity. A marine blue light swims in through the late afternoon window like the odour of gas. The Operator wipes the tears from his eyes with the back of a hairy hand and turns on the radio.

I’m going pretty mama -
Please don’t break this rule -
That’s why I’m searching these deserts for the blues

A soldier. A spy. A data technician. Even a job at his local newspaper would suffice. A photographer. Would have to buy a camera. A terminalisation assistant in a hospital disposal unit. Is that impressive on a CV? A terminalisation technician. Sounds better. Before that a hospital porter. Learnt a lot about the medical profession. Medicine is progress.

Kwoorsh, Klunk. Kwoorsh, Klunk. Kwoorsh, Klunk.

The Operator dives under his wooden desk, lunges back out, searches for his inhaler, which he thinks is on the desk but isn’t (it’s on top of the filing cabinet), swears, dives under, and closes his yellowing eyes. Glasses? Out from under the desk...sees them on the floor, next to the chair. Quickity quick. Scrambles under the desk again, fits his spectacles onto his thin, down-turned face. Kwoorsh, Klunk. Kwoorsh, Klunk. The Operator takes his mobile from his shirt pocket. 3.15 p.m. Weak signal. The song on the radio is interrupted by a high pitched squeal, then a cough. Three-two-one. The voice of the prime minister, heavily accented:

‘Ladies and gentleman, welcome to the fetid world of terrorism. This is an example of the extent to which political fanatics will undermine your daily existence with their childish outbursts. In this, their latest outrage, they have succeeded in exploding a dress-maker’s mannequin filled with high-impact explosives and a cocktail of noxious vapours as yet unidentified. Fortunately for the people of this city, it was merely a British Army demonstration - a military drill - which exceeded the boundaries of its lawful limitations, that is, to use common parlance, it got out of hand. Luckily, only a few severe civilian casualties have been reported. Most of you, however, will probably experience merely a swelling of the eyeballs, plus an itchy rash on areas of exposed skin. These symptoms will, for the most part, subside within 24 hours. There is no reason to panic. We are here, as always, to protect you. If you require any information, please visit us at w-w-w-dot-wegov-dot-org, that’s w-e-g-o-v-all one word-dot.org. I repeat, that’s www.wegov.org. Thank you for listening, and goodbye.’

After a few seconds of silence, the radio broadcast returns to a state of normalcy with the announcement of a music quiz. The Operator evidently decides to stay put as he does not move. Minutes later, he is still there, hunched over, awkwardly bent. On closer inspection one might surmise The Operator is dead, but from this distance it is hard to tell. Amplified voices outside. Car horns and a cacophony of sirens. A rash of activity spreads across the district - must be a serious flare-up.

II

Later that week, The Operator decides to pick up the ringing phone.
‘Hello there,’ says the voice. ‘What have you got for me?’
‘Sorry, which number are you after?’ asks The Operator. The reply: ‘I don’t know the answer to that.’
The Operator sits very still on his single bed and presses his left ear into the receiver as if to hear better. The voice is rough and fractured: either from tiredness or sickness.
The Operator: ‘Which number did you mean to ring?’
‘The one I’ve just dialled.’
‘Which is...?’
‘I can’t say. I mean I don’t remember.’
‘Do you have something to tell me?’
‘I thought it might be the other way round. What have you got?’
‘I’ve got nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing that’s worth mentioning. What are you after?’
‘I’m after something which is the opposite of something else. Only then can I make a balanced judgement. In short, I am after a second principle. Without a second principle, I cannot pursue a higher principle. It is the law of things.’
‘I can’t give you anything like that.’
‘Neither can I.’
‘That leaves us both in a quandary. Do you have anything particular in mind?’
‘I have nothing specific. That’s a problem in itself.’
The Operator catches sight of himself in his bedroom mirror, turns away, and then looks again as if to reassure himself that still exists in bodily form.
‘Tell me again what number you want.’
‘Haven’t you already asked me that?’
‘I think so.’
‘What was my answer?’
‘I’m not sure. I’d have to look back.’
‘I either said, ‘I can’t say’ or ‘I don’t remember.’’
The Operator glances at the illuminated clock on his bedside cabinet. 3:13 a.m.
‘Do you know what time it is?’
‘It is twenty past two in the morning.’
‘It’s an odd time to be ringing people.’
‘Can you help me or not?’ says the voice, irritated.
‘I can only help insofar as saying I cannot help.’
‘That’s a start.’
‘Yes, it’s better than nothing.’
‘It’s more than I expected.’
‘I didn’t expect anything.’
‘Neither did I. Anyway, it’s a good second principle.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I can help. I cannot help. In between falls the shadow.’
‘Is there anything else?’
‘Such as?’
‘Something else that you require.’
‘I think you’ve covered everything.’
‘I’m well trained.’
‘Actually, there is something.’
‘Yes?’
‘I need a bit more time to think.’
‘I have all the time in the world.’
‘That’s good. I was thinking - well, does nothing bother you?’
‘Only phone calls in the middle of the night,’ replied The Operator.
‘Who rings you in the night?’
‘No one in particular. It’s usually a wrong number.’
‘Philosophically speaking, there’s no such thing as a wrong number. Think about it. Every time you reach for the phone there are seemingly limitless choices of telephone numbers and most will lead to a voice at the end of a line. Others end up nowhere at all. And all the numbers you don't ring are paths to realities you don't pursue. Think of that. In a sense, one reality is as good as another. Ergo, there’s no such thing as a wrong number.’
‘What about unconscious error?’
‘You mean a slip of the finger or a failure of memory or a misread note?’
‘I suppose.’
‘Then you end up in the reality of somebody you don’t know. And they don’t know you. It’s not the end of the world.’
‘There’s some truth in that I suppose.’
‘Of course, that doesn’t take into consideration the burden of choice. All those numbers. Millions of them. The possibilities are seemingly endless.’
‘It could be argued that if one number is as good as another, then there’s no choice to make.’
‘A good point. Although by dialling a particular number at a given moment, it means there are millions of other numbers you didn’t dial. It’s a narrow, blinkered path we tread.’
‘All those paths we don't take but could take if we had more time.’
‘Exactly. Now you know why I dialled your number. Your number is a version of another number I could’ve dialled but didn’t.’
The Operator glances at his clock again.
‘But as I said, is there anything else?’
‘At the moment, I cannot say. I need a bit more time to think. I’ll ring back.’
‘When?’
‘I can’t say.’
‘How will you know you’ve got the right number?’
‘I don’t. That’s the risk I’ll have to take.’
The voice terminates the call. The Operator holds the phone against his ear for a few seconds and then replaces the receiver. He picks it up and dials 14713.
‘What is it?’ says a female voice.
‘I’m sorry; I must have the wrong number.’
‘What number did you want?’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘What number did you mean to ring?’
‘I don’t know the answer to that.’
‘I’m going to hang up.’
‘Please don’t.’
The call goes dead. The Operator lets the receiver slip from his fingers. He goes downstairs to the kitchen and lights a cigarette. A minute goes by and the phone rings.
‘Hello,’ says The Operator timidly.
‘Hello.’
‘You called back then?’
‘I’m sorry, what do you mean? Who am I speaking to?’
‘Didn’t you call a few minutes ago?’
‘I certainly did not.’
‘Then why are you ringing?’
‘I’m not. You rang me.’
‘I distinctly heard the phone ring - that’s why I answered it.’
‘You’re a liar. A telepathic liar.’
‘So you ring people in the middle of the night and then call them a liar?’
‘Yes. Why not?’
‘Have you dialled this number before?’
‘No. Why should I want to dial this number?’
The Operator hangs up. He dials 14713.
‘Er. Hello.’
‘Who’s that?’
‘My name is The Operator. What’s your name?’
‘The Operator.’
‘That makes two of us.’
‘Yes. Have you tried ringing me?’
‘I think so. I can’t recall the exact time.’
‘Was it tonight?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Did you try ringing tonight?’
‘I rang somebody or somebody rang me. I don’t know if it was you.’
‘It was me.’
‘There you go then. Question answered.’
‘Did I ring you or did you ring me?’
‘That’s a question.’
‘I know - I asked it.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘I don’t remember. Can you ask me again?’
‘No.’
‘I have a question.’
‘What?’

The Operator looks out the window and sighs.

The Operator on the other end does the same.

The Operator rubs his temples.

The Operator does the same.

The Operator sniffs and replaces the receiver

The Operator does the same.

The Operator walks upstairs.

The Operator does the same.

The Operator looks in the bathroom mirror and strokes his chin stubble.

The Operator does the same.

The Operator does

The Operator

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

The Humanzee

2010-01-26T05:35:00.002-08:00

The Humanzee

Dr R Stubbs, host to a crowd of forty souls, walks in a stately manner through the upper rooms of his London mansion. He descends the wide staircase, smiling and reeling off witty one-liners. Beethoven’s Violin Concerto in D major, Op. 61 emanates from an expensive sound system. For a few minutes he casually mingles among his guests in the large dining hall, then calls for the music to be turned off. His wife hands him a microphone before fleeing into a corner.

"Friends, enemies and, of course, mother. Thank you all for coming to my little party. The reason I invited you into my home, into the bosom of my life, is to tell you that I am retiring from the position I have held for so many years. I have decided to grasp the nettle and fulfil my lifelong ambition. For those who are not familiar with my aspiration, then I will say it plainly: my intention is to become a humanzee. A humanzee. That is to say, a cross between a chimpanzee and a human being. Note the terminology: a humanzee, not a chimpman. I find the latter term trivialises the importance of my undertaking.

"As I was saying, I have decided to commit to a species-change. A humanzee seems to be a sensible choice. There are some who advocate a more radical step, but I baulk at sharing my genes with that of a mouse or a goat. There are limits. For those of you who are interested in facts and not gossip, chimpanzees share 98% of the human genome. Furthermore, a mature chimpanzee is as intelligent and aware as a four-year-old human being. For those who are wondering what my new name will be, we shall have to wait and see. Any suggestions, feel free to send me an email.

"My species-change operation will be overseen by Dr Ezekiel Karakas, a surgeon of questionable origin. But his references are almost impeccable. As you might expect, I am a little nervous, but excitement is the overwhelming emotion. Of course, I have made preparations and provisions where it matters. My wife, as you may have surmised, will not be joining me in my new venture but has been satisfied by a £500,000 pay-off. I have adjusted my will accordingly in case anything untoward happens. My children will not be left penniless. I am unsure at present whether I can continue in my current capacity as a practitioner of psychoneurotic medicine, but this is not a great concern. My new life will be an occupation in itself. I have enough funds to see me through to the end.

"Some of you are perhaps thinking that this is an ingenious way of evading the taxman, but I assure you this is not the case. Indeed, the UK government has announced plans to legislate in favour of humanzees and other man/beast chimeras paying national insurance contributions. The opposition party is in full agreement. But if I am to survive and enjoy life as a humanzee I must rely on a private pension.

"Some of you are no doubt pondering the following question: ‘What if something goes wrong during or immediately after the operation?’ ‘Is not the risk of sudden death through heart failure or serious infection a cause of concern?’ I assure you I have pondered all sides of the circle and have concluded that the benefits far outweigh the risks. What are the benefits? Well friends, what about the experience itself? How many people wake up one day and realise they are not fully human? How does one adapt to this kind of defamiliarisation? Furthermore, how many people get the chance to experience life through the eyes and ears of a humanzee? Imagine the media coverage! Imagine the visits from world leaders and diplomats all hoping to catch a glimpse of me! Imagine how eager they will be to spend a minute or two in the company of a real-life humanzee. Already I have been approached by a French film-maker who wishes to document my transformation. Moreover, I shall be the envy of the scientific establishment. I will demonstrate that a hypothesis can have legs. In short, I shall be a world event.

"Yes, friends, I have thought long and hard about this unique undertaking and feel that this is my destiny. If I was a sentimental man I’d say it was a dream come true. I remember as a child reading about apes, being fascinated with the expressions and the movement of the chimpanzee, their faces free of corruption. As I grew older, I fantasised about the world of man and the world of the chimpanzee colliding and combining. It has only been in the last ten years that science has approached the subject of the humanzee seriously. As far as I know I am the first to occupy that space where the two circles collide.

"Please do not think of me as a ‘subject’ - either willing or coerced. This is my life’s work, my ambition. I am in charge of my destiny and fully accept any repercussions. If the operation is unsuccessful – if it either fails or leaves me in a state of coma – I will not seek compensation. I have informed my legal team to accept the ultimate outcome whatever it may be. My children are prepared. My eldest daughter was not surprised when I told her of my desire. In fact, she thought it was inevitable and would have raised the subject sooner or later anyhow. If my daughter can accept it, and if my wife can behave with such quiet dignity, then friends, enemies, mother, so can you. So raise your glasses, and let us toast the future. I wish you all a long and fruitful life, whatever your species, whatever form of life you may be."

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Complaint

2010-01-19T07:05:00.002-08:00

Every time I come over
Original sin
Quickens in my veins.

My heart tells me I am guilty
For not doing more
To unburden you.

You’re so lonely,
And I’m so impatient, resentful,
Never pleased to see you.

It is exhausting being
On the other end of this:
Tied to a mast or a telegraph pole.

Our old life is over.
But the way you divest me
Of time suggests otherwise.

This isn’t healthy.
It’s hard enough being me
Without having you involved.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

An idle king

2009-12-01T02:17:00.000-08:00

I am an idle man –
Nay, a dead king –
With the wind and sea at my back,
Whose shade walks
Among the dread bones of Hades.

I left my island home
With a glut of fishermen, meat and libations;
Now I am usurped
By space, time
And bad fortune.

I wait for the gods
To come back to life
And punish or reward me.
I have waited
For centuries,
For millennia – but love is dead
And there are no myths left to speak of.

My ghostly beard is long, long
And my son is long gone.
My wife no longer
Weaves the various colours
That make up this moment.

I do not exist, oh moon.
I do not exist, oh little stars.
And yet: I exist, somehow.

I have dreamed
And dared to imagine
But my voice
Is small, dry and silent.
I wait for release
But I am fatally stuck.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

A post-structuralist critique

2009-11-16T10:26:00.001-08:00

Devoid of contextual inter-relations,
The left has relinquished its hegemonic structures
For something more postmodern –
A switch from classical logo-centric cultural paradigms
To a pseudo-reality where discourse
Is no longer embedded in the narratives
Of phallo-centric meta-history but is now free-floating,
Unfixed, deconstructed and thoroughly decentred

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Odysseus’ lament

2009-11-16T10:25:00.001-08:00

I am stuck
On this island
Unable to leave her -
O my Calypso.

At what point
Did you decide
To keep me here
So powerless?

I have dreamed
And dared to imagine
Another life,
Another world.

But my voice
Is small and silent.
I wait for release
But I wait in vain.

I am stuck
On this island,
Unable to leave,
Unable to master

My star-fuelled destiny.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

O bright Apollo

2009-10-10T07:32:00.001-07:00

Threaten the wild beast, O bright Apollo,
And leave your lonely tent; empty your heart,
Empty your belly, and learn to fear the Lord.

Stop looking for the wind that blows the sand.
Instead speak the song that I have made; or,
Search the green valley where God’s anger rises against his perfect ones.

O Apollo, does your spirit not awaken?
Does the anguish of your heart not feel like a wheel that refuses to turn?
Speak straight and let the grass turn brown beneath your steps.

Do not let your foes malign your brother:
For the night - though dark - shall not hide the Lord’s fury.
Come; let us pity the stars for they are going out one by one.

You dream of truth, of something formless yet complete.
So why do you boast of wickedness, of sacrifice?
For the wounded in their tents have no stomach for this:
They are tired, and so am I.

O bright Apollo, my dullness shames me.
I am as wretched as a land without green shoots.
I have cursed the sun, the storm and the earthquake.
Still, I am in two minds about it

And there you are Apollo, hiding beneath a fig tree,
Daydreaming of a mysterious woman, imbibing a grey light…

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Postmodern American poetry

2009-09-30T07:29:00.001-07:00

French horns, the length of METAPHORS, playing in the dark

And I am still thinking

We ask her what she thinks as she lies in dead leaves, concealed

Still-life, still-born
Like a forgetful river, I abandon my paintings, my AfricAN name

And then I slide out my knife and stick it deep into silence, declare war on the body of love, turn the corner in Brooklyn

I guess

I am watching, she is dreaming, there is a distance, a distant laughing where the darkness edges up her skirt

Incapable, in the garden, so MANY lights, so MANY Vietnams, so MANY clouds with dark underbellies

This is not a joke it’s real
During the depression he waited for a farce and he is still waiting, waiting to be desired by the body of his desired one and he is still waiting, as we are all still waiting

Is there a message or can I go back to sleep? O VOY-AGER

& Jesus
Miracles and binoculars are all that matters, like the French horns and long metaphors.

And I am still thinking, thinking, thinking.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

The crow's song

2009-08-16T06:41:00.001-07:00

And will there be time enough to walk beneath the sun
As the dead land flows behind us?

Or will the crow sing of lost love, lost opportunities?
Love, I am failing to find a narrative that fits us all.

Is there no right answer to the question that snaps at our heels,
A right response that satisfies us all?

No, and this is the tragedy of our predicament. That to live
Requires the death of something else.

I twist and turn. Shadows drape over us,
Ugly cloaks of lies that suit nobody.

I am here, you are there. And they are somewhere else.
I cannot fathom the way ahead, yet I know my happiness lies with you.

We are mired in bloody hearts, the remains of love gone bad.
The crow comes, picks at the bones of shattered dreams.

I am that crow, that vision of death.
I am the one that turns over corpses and flies away.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Goodbye, again

2009-08-16T06:39:00.001-07:00

Inside the hospital walls
Is where the old man waits, sits,
Spends his time in lifeless anticipation.

His wife, an angular bundle
Of bones and blankets,
Calls for him, over and over.

Nurses come with food
But she does not rise, cannot eat or drink.
They have no time to spare.

So there he sits, day upon day, spoon or fork in hand,
Feeding her, wiping her, chiding her,
Before returning home, empty.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Love's bind

2009-08-16T06:37:00.001-07:00

It is Saturday night, early Sunday morning
And the cool breeze comes through the back door,
Chilling my bare feet as I type out words on a white canvas.

The smell of cigarette smoke lingers like a bad thought
That will not go away. I am here, you are there; they are elsewhere.
I miss you but cannot see or hold you.

I am not used to being sentimental.
It is not a colour that suits me.
Still I am unable to resolve the knot that binds us all.

I am lost again, not knowing what to do, where to go.
And the shadow at the door tells me
I must relinquish something precious.

For now, this will remain our special secret,
A secret that threatens to spill over
the lines that hold in the colours.

You say an affair of the heart is one thing, but an affair
Of the flesh is something else.
The latter would be easier to process, easier to renounce.

It is Saturday night, early Sunday morning
And I cannot sleep or think or dream. The agony
Of ourselves keeps me awake, keeps me writing.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Fragments

2008-11-04T08:41:00.000-08:00

26/12/04 -

Pieces of boat
float
on the surface of the water.

A cargo of hands and heads remain
unrecognised.

Camera crews tread carefully over
eggshell lives, pick up threads
of stories.

The crow cries, the parent
on a makeshift stretcher cries.

Photographs of the dead
fade
as the world turns

in its grave.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Under the world

I descended
eighty-six
radical steps
to the devil's loch.

There the heron
brooded
at the water's edge
and the reflection

of shapely trees
misted
in the fly-specked
underworld.

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

Sea

The sea moves
in ancient gestures
calling on the land
to give up her fight
& join him in the ebb & flow
where time is slow
& death is not the end.

Copyright 2000 Richard C Mather

November sun

I am a foreigner
to the future
& a tourist
to the past.

The present day
is like the sun
in November:
a weak watery light,
not what it was
but not dead yet.

Copyright 2000 Richard C Mather

A poem of love

This is a poem of love
without any words in it.
It is about silences, of imaginings,
of looks that say "you can write a poem
without any words in it."

Whatever we write is indescribable,
so full of kisses and childish laughter.

Copyright 2010 Richard C Mather

City terraces at night

Shroud-smog on terrace roofs, the industrial heart
of old empire. Lightless TV aerials like
woodsmoke against the chimneys stacked in brownbrick.
Black shadow traverses the back walls, blue
eyes rubbing the dustbins.

Of note is tonight's moon configured
in mathematical dimensions.

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

Salford blues

City blinks, breathes in
moist grey air and coughs into
a handkerchief of clean washing.

Apparitional smog
irritates the eyes,
disturbs the intake of breath.

It's been raining all day.
The sky is now the colour of a sky bleached
by persistent rain.

Two pigeons huddle together
on a security alarm,
their white-grey breasts pressed close

in songless union.
Theirs is the silent call of a wet-washed city
at the centre of a turning world.

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

Magic night

Blood, tears,
a vial of sea salt,
dice, cards,
a postcard from Venice -

Magic, time, atoms,
space, words,
a litany
of commands.

Honey drops
so slowly
from the spoon
into wine,

And like a flash
of lightening
all the world
is gone.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

On occasion

Friends gather around the pub table
sip drinks from tall glasses
exchange work and family news
eat lunch from warm plates and side dishes
lift forks, open mouths, chew, swallow, smile with teeth
unfold white paper napkins
wipe mouth-corners
finish drinks
visit toilets
collect coats and bags before saying goodbye,
take care, see you soon, we must do this again sometime.

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

Words

What are these things before me
That come into shape? Do not ask
And I will not have to answer.

Weird creatures that run amok
Inside their cages. Little flowers
Of poison and honey.

Potent as blood-drops,
They scatter and return like ants,
Dissolve faster than puffs of smoke.

Words, I push you out
And you take me where you want to go.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

The birds

I am that crow outside my window,
That seagull,
That magpie.

Their song is my song;
My ways are their ways.

It has nothing to do with love;
It is something different,
Something altogether baser.

Copyright 2009 Richard C Mather

Red Planet

Blood is the colour of the desert rock,
the colour of sun as it slips down
behind the border; the colour of smoke,

of passport photos, of the road through town.
Blood is the buzz of electric wire,
the stripes of a flag spat on and torn.

Blood is the rose that grows from the fire,
the union between living and the dead,
the mark of the martyr, the lust of his fear.

Blood is the charge of a gun to the head,
a knife to the throat, a baton to the legs.
Blood is the root that connects us to blood.

Copyright 2002 Richard C Mather

Salford morning

Fog frost, the smell of petrol on the way to the Social Bureau.
She walks to work, big coat, gloves.
An ordinary day.

The precinct dilapidated, destroyed by neglect and vandalism.
Office blocks, 1960s architectural pastiches, rise up
Out of the cold mist.

She looks up, sees me watching.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

Synthesis

Nothing ever happens.
The sex-fiend is at the wheel of the train.
Is this the way out?
Flies on the window-pane crawl downwards.
I have a picture of Saturn.
The situation has changed.
It is the wrong kind of number.
The babies are crying. It must be a holiday.
It is green. If you like it you can say the same.
Diabetes is on the increase.
It is the Americas. They are pushing me.
It is something almost final like the end of summer.

Copyright 2003 Richard C Mather

Shall We Run?

2008-11-03T09:48:00.000-08:00

Shall we run to the dawn
As the landscape flows away beneath our feet,
And the soft river nuzzles our holy flesh,
Caged and hurt by heaven unnatural and dull?
Our consciousness full with bloodless words, those ghostly
cancerous lines,
And desperate workers inside the goldmines.
We lift our eyes to the heavy hill
And raise our hands as if to kill
But down again with a single certain sigh.
Shall we run for the sky,
And see the morning from a hotel window?

If we run through the dawn
When the apple boughs sway in summer and cruel
Dreams stir the lilacs and feed the city,
I could cry a thousand restless salt lakes,
And you could stay awake to count the strangers on the street
below
Until the roads were buried in the snow.
We lift our eyes to the heavy hill,
A phantom king when time is still,
But down we come with a shiver and a sigh.
Let us run for the sky
And see the morning from a hotel window.

When we run past the dawn,
When the city blinks a tear in warm remembrance
And the brown river chases our holy flesh
Covering the earth with warnings and lustrous psalms,
And our heart-shaped palms are bruised with time and naked
wintry lines,
When comforts linger inside the goldmines,
We’ll lift our eyes to the heavy hill
And part our lips as if to fill
Our mouths again with a bitter tasting sigh.
Shall we run, you and I,
Or see the evening from a hotel window?

Copyright 1998 Richard C Mather

Shouting in brackets

2008-11-03T05:59:00.001-08:00

WHO IS LISTENING?

Golden-green lightning
divides
the tallest mountain

LISTEN!

Building my exile
you grant my place
in System

I AM LISTENING

What's to understand
but a bunch
of nerves?

WHO'S THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING?

A plastic oesophagus
is a canal
in an unusual context

I AM THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING

Let the old root
snap
from the cold soil

WHAT MATERIAL IS THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING?

Blabberguts!
All speaking
is shouting in brackets

I AM THE MATERIAL OF THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING

Life does
not include
personal issues

WHAT SHAPE IS THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING?

Please Animosity,
the reward is
Amnesty

I AM THE SHAPE OF THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING

Exclamations
are indirect excuses
that can't be helped

WHAT IS THE USE OF THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING?

Face opens up
and Jaws chews
Serenity's piece of mind.

I AM THE FUNCTION OF THE EAR THAT IS LISTENING

The X and Y
of Vortex Central Station
is a calculated non-position

WHO ARE YOU?

A material breach
in the world
of manifest objects

I DON'T KNOW

The man passes door,
enters.
Eyeyeye-hodoraporium!

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

The eye looks

2008-11-03T05:57:00.000-08:00

The eye looks
The ear waits
The hand gropes
The heart yearns
The body thrashes
about the turning wheel,
which turns in TIME.

Head-Neck-Thorax-Limbs-Abdomen-Reproductiveorgans-Pelvis-Veins-Nervoussystems-Mind-Mentalformations-Volition-Memory-Perceptions-Thoughts-Awareness-Feelings-Desires-Consciousness

Breakdown-Dissolve-Expire-Crackunderpressure-Atomise-Losecoherence-Liquify-Scatterlikeseedsonthewind-Thaw-Dissipate-Fadeout on the outgoing breath

Is the

eye empty

yet?

Skull! cerebral hemispheres! limbic system! basal ganglia! olfactory
nerve! eyeball! sinuses! teeth! tongue! ear! vertebral
column! brainstem! thyroid! coccyx! spinal cord!
sternum! trachea! the pleura! aortic valve!
pulmonary vein! axilla! radius!
metacarpal bones! oesophagus!
stomach! colon! liver! renal
pyramids! ureters! urine! patellar ligament!
femur! sciatic nerve! metatarsals! lymph nodes! arteries!
skeletal muscle! motor nerve endings! hair! nails! blood! skin!

Wait! I still haven't explained what the body is.

Copyright 2005 Richard C Mather

Observations of Dead Ringer

2008-11-03T05:56:00.000-08:00

Dead Ringer opens a jewellery box to reveal
a platinum brooch, rhodium watch, immortal diamond choker;
and on the quiltwork, a tiger-eye necklace pendant.
Exclamations clamour as seven yellow balloons ascend
to the Taj Mahal painting that hangs from the ceiling beams.
Soap-skinned Valentine looks on astonished,
an obsequious grin dripping from his amazing hollow face.
Plush telephones purr politely. Butler tuts at discarded children,
the property of Annie-in-her-cloak. Servants polish and whisper,
their faces starched and blank as paper.
The musicians and clocks chime in elegant harmony.
A palatial figure sweeps through the masquerade,
followed by a clutch of toad-mouthed Americans,
Fidel Castro-cigars dangling from their rich lips.
Chocolates on a tray disrupt the brandy talk.
Luminescent heroes with their transparent starlets
dance and flash their smiles before the social mirror:
powder and paint, buckles and cuff-links, money and sympathy.
Youthful prince, standing by the moon-washed windows,
cries for the jester. Alas, the courtyard is empty.
He strokes his moustache and the banquet is over.

Copyright 1997 Richard C Mather

Thirteen

2008-11-03T05:55:00.000-08:00

A dirty statue
of mother nature
frowning in the rain

Rising tides of raw sewage
spilling over
Europe's cities

Big man pouring water from a jar
to herald a new morning
despite the poisoning of New York

Indonesian babies
screaming for heaven
and getting no reply

Father Time waltzing through a deep heap
of disengaged heads,
his black eyes bulging

The revolutions of history
repeating themselves
with a polite burp

Faces burning
as the earth bleeds its last
drop of oil

Paranoiacs broadcasting anthrax
into the livingrooms
of a dumb public

The sign of the cross
in perfect form inside
a Hindu tomato

The devil scouring
the Los Angeles desert for the blues
but finding only sand

God himself
without a battle left
to fight

The final bloom of the sun
as its bursts
like a flaming aerosol

All this and more
can be seen through a glass
darkly.

Copyright 2001 Richard C Mather

First sentence

2008-11-03T05:54:00.002-08:00

I cannot remember my first word,
but I do recall my first sentence:
cribbed in a box with the lid on,
kept under house arrest
by a familial jailer.
Sheets were hot wet prisons.

Hands larger than God
executed your angry reprisals.
I was moon-stricken, heart-bitten
by your iceberg pettiness,
and your lazy, shameful fumblings.
I could not win as you raged like some fallen idol.

Verbal bullets pierced the sweating air
when hard white fingers tore my skin
and pulled at my hair.
No night was safe from your hooks
or sour tongue.

You were the immovable statue
and your new husband a grey shadow
flat and cringing,
cowering like a frightened schoolboy
beneath the blackboard.

A litany of orders diminished us.
We sang distant tiny echoes
of your merciless overture.
You always were the one
with the chalk in your hand.

The strings snapped from your fingers,
unleashing a tentacled monster
lavishing its poison over gaunt faces.
You should have finished me
before I got you.

Like a wounded animal grasping
at its half-devoured prey
you shrank in the doorway,
hissing and spitting as I gathered up
the bags and clothes that littered the garden.
I had to escape, they tell me.
I had to escape.

My departure was almost a calling.

Copyright 1998 Richard C Mather

Our backyard

2008-11-03T05:54:00.001-08:00

Looking out back
I see pots of rosemary, lavender,
ivy, a dwarf conifer
damaged by the wind but
repotted yesterday and saved.

Our backyard a heap of
decaying boxes, dead leaves,
soil-balls, rusting spade,
dirty broom, discarded
wood, tiles and bricks.
Cats like sentinels
survey the lost kingdom
of this northern city.
They leave their smell
on the door,
in the flowerpots.

Raindrops hang
from the washing-line
and the flagstones are dark
from the afternoon downpour.
White paint is peeling
from the yard walls,
exposing the dirty
brown brick underneath.

Agecroft: a fragment

2008-11-03T05:51:00.000-08:00

"I demand," he said (sober serious),
"that those rooftop birds
stop singing and start looking
for jewels and things to cherish."

The notes expand, as does the sky, or the eye
of the old man smoking in his front garden.
He sees the prison where the men are kept indoors,
the graveyard where her bones are kept,
the railway bridge, the tattered billboards.
The eye retracts,
but the singing continues.
It is the one road: there is no other.

The shutters are down now
on the hot/cold food and drinks van.
Gone are the smells of onion and fried smoke.
Gone, the brown steam from polystyrene cups.
Gone, the greasy menuboard and stained apron
marked with her fingerprints.
"I am talking about the spirit of the place," he projects
as the wind turns.

All winter, exhaust collects
in the low air, disperses over gardens,
is recycled in the lungs of passers-by.

This is the one road.

Aquarius

2008-11-03T05:50:00.000-08:00

So the roots of
plants, trees, arteries, sewers, nervous systems, run
down to the shore of the great rotting river,
which uncoils like an intestine
past Adam and Eve's.
Beyond muddy perimeters, the water turns,
churns up contraceptives, insects,
and mushy brown leaves.

The river charms
its way between the crumbling, rumbling jaws
of earth, past restaurants, dustbins, hospitals
like the persistent flow of time, words, people, hissing cars;
past the ruins of
factories, castles and back-to-back slums,
picking up layers of mud, newspaper pages, the ghosts of old songs.

Behind red raw roofs
the old sun
slips
in silence.
Beneath the reign of Aquarius the planet squirms
like a sick fish:
sirens, violence,
eyes behind windows, the emaciated beggar.
Bodies traffic through the rain: wind, glide, shiver, trudge
like shades at the river's edge.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

After the city, the desert

2008-11-03T05:49:00.000-08:00

"And to your left you see this town is occupied, renamed.
It's on the map. Look, an X marks the spot.
Sure, guns were bought. Bought, sold and reloaded.
Those holes in the wall... that was my mother's home.
The Party took my children."

I

Pottery fragments
underfoot as the guide walks us
through the Assyrian gallery.
Display cases exhibit the evidence
of their violation.

"An inside job.
The golden bull's head is gone -
stolen by bandits or Party members.
The records are in chaos:
no inventory."

Men in uniform
prise open boxes,
sift artefacts with gloved fingers.
They speak in small voices
about a missing key.

Dismembered statues
pile up in the street.
A place of disfigured mannequins.
Hard blank eyes gape
at the mouth of the moon.

II

The moon turns away, returning
light to the sun, sensing
her influence to be too inexorable.
Soldiers point rifles at windows.
Belief in change is waning.

Red-faced recruits boil in their tanks.
Heat swells inside the barrels
of their throats.
Some watch solemn
children vanish into corners
as the curfew bell rings its last note.

Others spit in the dust, half-listening
to splinters of radio-talk,
half-listening to their private fears,
blood beating behind the ears.

Under siege.
The second hand clicks,
a ticking bomb.

Then a million shreds of glass,
the arrests, the news crew, the analysis.

After the city, the desert -
a whirlwind of sand and flame.
Every day is hotter than the last.
The streets stink with flesh
of bodies not collected.

Copyright 2004 Richard C Mather

The Chad-Cameroon oil pipeline project

2008-11-03T05:38:00.000-08:00

And again:
the thud of executions
echoes
in the green ear of Maboula, Cameroon.

The tremendous squeak of the assassin's blow
and the axe cleaves the trunk:
the first bite
travels
down
the
core
like
electricity
through bone.

The wood rings out dull music,
a drowsy monotone.

A loud
creak and
the sky
topples;
a tearing
tumult
of raindrops,
leaves
and twigs.

Upper kingdoms are disturbed:
birds disperse and disappear
with the passing clouds;

hives fall apart in the fall:
the royal parent and her heirs
scatter in the white wind like seeds.

A corpse lies on the forest floor, inert: another wrecked thing that will never rise.

Copyright 2003 Richard C Mather