Friday, 21 December 2012


Spar of the eye, rocket of the plaything
The curve of white dandelions releasing
Blue a winter pleasing
Curl of the queer soft twist
Spoke of the gentle swing of my soft eye
All is in the swirl of my eye arcing
The wrist of the old man swiftly
The burr of sharp girls in the city quickly
The red of the red lights frankly
Onto the spindle of my lid
Onto the spoor of my sight
In among the tractable fold of the retina
Look from the side and see clearer than frontwise
All is all in the halfway sprawl of my sideways eyes.

St-Lambert, circa 1983.

Limbs From The Broken Trees


Limbs from the broken trees are my god’s hair.
Autumn pages are his turning waifs.
Thrones from the throaty earth bow his rule.
Yet the silver juggler is his favourite fool
and red pangs of his startle care
so the blood red shame of him carves him safe.

In the burning flock of cold falls his ash.
Pauper is he, beggar in the streeting frost.
Drunk in the bowery of his blacking frame.
My god in the mouth of a searivering blame.
Accipiter hair is his dying flash
for the winking Abraham Men are always lost.

St-Lambert, 1982.



Bitches!  Bastards!  Everything to them
is the lawn cut and the bursting dog walked,
and I without money for a lifestyle

they give me the pay equivalent of an hour
of a workman’s salary
and I, squandering and literary,

prone to pursue deprecating luxury
beg off to the dopefiends and millionaires
nervepinched beside me.

A genuine genius in the house
suffering parental gruelling generosity
O they treat me like their child to be proud

But I am turbaned in the shroud
they leave the unsound and poverty-dead in
with, to offset the pallor, the penniless grin:

the platinum fixture of the cloud.
The rest of my life will be spent
siphoning off my benefactors

and benefactresses’ graces.
The precocious and talented are not meant
ever, under God, to earn a cent.

St-Lambert, circa 1982.



One’s got to be a tiger
to outlive this conflagration.
I should like to make a wager:
man’s changed to spots from celebration and oration.

In the fire I drew my love
she could only make an apparition.
She was pretty white in the flesh
though she was in bad condition.

In the gold and fire up above
two things happened to transpire:
I gave up my wool blazer for tiger teeth
and turned in my love for underneath.

St-Lambert, circa 1984.