Psychology has Moved to the Upper Basement

To the core of the tree where remains the husk of onetime seed
Etched between rings zero and one the memory of need
Come knife-marks of lurid lovers exuding sap to flies
their bordello bodies writhe in funk and fecund fire

At the centre of the mind sleeps the all-seeing eye
While wide awake the reptile core lies coiled to justify
All our deeds and sowing seeds and ideas set alight
Poised to launch the wound-up spring of supernatural flight

At the centre of the world lies the soul of the last whale
Magma red in inky sea the eye that clocks the sail
Dragging in its frothing wake the crimes of all our futures
Propeller blade reminders, wounds not fit for suture

But the sowing hand is random like the leaves in autumn falling
And what stands now as fact was once a children’s rhyme
With words that wander in and out of sleep’s magnetic calling
and leave the pumping blood to mark the drumming time

down the winding stairs to where the waiting spectre whittles
effigies of you and me in honey sap entwined
tethered to the tree defined by chlorophyll and time
and all the whirling stars that mark our ancient sacred signs

and the bark that solidifies to blind the lovers’ heart-shaped hack
…a flesh wound healed too quick too late to warrant looking back

December 2008

The title for this piece comes from a sign I once saw in a Bookshop in Glasgow

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