This is possibly one of my oldest unpublished poems, probably dating from around 1992. I remember showing it to a girl I was going out with in the late 1990s; she read it and then exclaimed “But what does it meeeeeaaannnnn???!” We broke up shortly after that.
i they are like mayan designs and indian temples calico made from central america's brooding twilight an instrument as still as crickets in jars or needlework zig-zag stitches stools and the edges of summer and shiny shut eyelids all slippery grey and wet like spiderwebs dawnyellow and dank that is the curtains that is when they are shut that is not the eye when the eye is open that is something different reaching a blue hand through therein lies the rent in the cornea an itch one itches to be curtains closed with the pent-up ache of eczema and your solution is: don't scratch them s- always you state the achingly impossible! always you are carving a niche like a river-log in my mouth my practical man from the back country but when the eyes open and close the shiny spiderweb of film (remember a blue hand) flickers becomes a salt-encrusted martini glass sand-blasted like the windowpane you found restless there in the ruins there in the ruins that is the eye that is when it is left open that is not the curtain the itch the ointment shuts like central america's brooding twilight... that is again the curtain closed not the eye at least not the eye itself but the open curtains "you are not the veils of a painting nor a bright sunlit day you are the open staring eye of my azi" ii. if i ever make a movie the opening scene will be a continuous slow-motion shot which begins at the centre of a room whose motif is central american the camera will move towards a glass window ever so slowly until it presses against the pane until the pressure is enough for it to ever so gently break it and then continue on its way out through the fields and across the river finally coming to rest near my azi propped up dead on a stone my azi draped in blood on a stone... the importance of eyes and curtains: the eye is the camera lens and the curtain is the eyelid is the one thing that stops the camera from seeing the window but remember a blue hand is the one thing that makes the eye see central america and its brooding twilight when all the eye can see with the curtains open is the sky- light and the cage that your father made for us to trap those beautiful birds... iii. it follows that the second shot will portray a solemn golden-eyed condor captured and caged at one end of a long wind tunnel the camera positioned at the other behind a sheet of glass will record the release of the condor from its cage and its frenzied flight to the light of freedom camera the hope and the sickening impact of its angel wings and its breast against the glass sounds of crickets and calico twilight edges... the importance of cages and cameras it is frequently impossible to break the pane of glass that separates the curtains from what it is the eye knows is there when finally the filming is done my blue hand quivers on the arm's edge of sunset the smoking compartment in the second class carriage bores through the jungle behind us tranquil plumes rock edges mayan ruins glittering with rain like the sounds of elliot's bird in its cage disturbing what i thought was death's inviolate peace but when jenkins his merciful wings shunts open the suffocating window o his great and merciful wings there's silence and though the company doth protest we breathe the doomed air of azi's last summer and finally i myself take flight... you are neither windowsill nor spider marksman cameraman- you the delta and your voice are whispering insistently as curtains: “i'll come at twilight i'll smash through the window for you don't you believe in the importance of condors? don't you lie beside me brooding don't you lie beside me brooding” when finally the window is gone