PARSIFALS

Weißt du, was du sahst?

The West Front

A spectral and pastel man
à la Puvis de Chavannes;
a nosferatu; sucker
fuckwit, raven-haired, tattooed
and pierced Sebastian;
beset by needles and by
notions of the infinite;

Or maybe a huge Deco
nude, pneumatic and roughcast
concrete pecs, cup-winner, eyes
on the prize; Führerprinzip,
Triumph of the Will, if you
will, a thick and relentless
chryselephantine phallus;

Or this war child, homeless king
of the streets; lord protector
of bomb sites; hoarder of all
their improbable treasure:
shrapnel, snapshots, dragons’ teeth;
a planespotter, gone to earth;
our troublesome feral dream.

The Lantern

Transparencies and slides of
our venereal disease:
Montsalvat steeped in, gorging
on our blood: On Purity
our text for today as eyes
are purged by chlorine, our hands
worrying at bandages.

Such clashing colours: khaki,
scarlet, browns, the bully-black
of boots and bad news, the whites
of marble and bone; rust-red
this rut of iron and mire
bathed fitfully in Klieg-light,
phosphorus, the follow-spot.

We have a knack for relics,
for coffin-gas transmuted
into the clearest ether;
high in their chapels of ease
the stained glass warrior-saints
are trenchant, carry their wounds
dearly, stand for our belief.

The Crypt

And here wé are, immured in
the meatiness of clays and
ochres, roasted haematites,
the earth-tones of Lascaux and
country house dining room walls:
the war paint of our presence
and persistence in the world.

A touch of burnt sienna
on the brush; the shadows of
sfumato virgins roiling
in the dark; here we revive
the gothic arts of torment
and delight, all flesh reduced
to the stickiest of jus.

A promise of tongues; the kiss
of incandescent charcoal;
solar flares; asphyxia;
the body seared and backlit
by a falling flame: here be
certain styles of ecstasy
beyond the Dresden Amen.

The Lady Chapel

This bread is tasteless, the wine
won’t clot, and has no bouquet;
above us a great white worm
is writhing on its cross; please,
somebody, laugh at this joke
of a hammered-up Jesus
flashing his pits, for God’s sake!

It’s ewig the Weibliche:
Trümmerfrau, suiveuse de camp,
Jewess, impossible flirt
with her crack-houri nails and
rouge dragon weirdo-hairdo;
still a player, still making
an effort, skin in the game.

Blood, fish and bone: let us now
speak the language of cut flowers:
the unsexed lily is trim
and user-friendly, no stains
or inseminations here;
the crown of thornless hybrid
teas is a real tease – a scream.

The Graveyard

More and more we find ourselves
visiting the rose gardens
and pale ecumenical
woods of crematoria,
our endless rites of caring
and convenient despatch
etched in their condolence-books;

Rubric and writing that bleeds
a flattened sort of griefwork,
lost for words; as if the crawl
of bullet-points on vellum
were enough; as if these lines
enrolled in eternity
could summon the flesh, the ash.

Need for air becomes pressing;
absence weighs upon the heart
with its phantom limbs and its
acres and acres of stone;
still this earth blocks our release,
and still overhead the skies
are loud and heavy with wings.

The Baptistry

Our harps are tuned to mourning
for the grave’s oblivion.
We are badly soiled; our world
on deathwatch, wounded, winding
down and circling to what end-
this shower of glittering
fluids now shrunk to a smear,

The suck of mud, and the wear
of leather on skin. Smoke fills
the corridors; we recoil
from the barrages of heat:
out of this blackened city
comes a clamour for healing,
clangour of numerous bells.

Hell is what we say it is:
perhaps this firestorm, or this
frozen, arid wilderness;
our wish and our will. At last
we are truly clean, the fields
unharrowed, salted and sown
with the ordnance of our tears.

The High Altar

Burnt offerings. A man of
sorrows and a perfect fool.
Angels are come among us,
glory in our rout. This is
where we queue up for the Light,
and listen to the tuning-
out of neurones, one by one:

A life caught briefly; flickers
and clips as we go out of
the body, under the knife
and into the blue; we are
awash with the poppy; we
watch as the gilded petals
of this altarpiece unfurl:

Fungus and gangrene and pus
undone in the loveliest
of oils, a heavenly float
over broken soldiery.
Here, at the pedicured feet
of holy men, we are screened
and found worthy after all.