Through the body's million tunnels liquids boil,
blood, lymph, acids, gall, all boil streaming vapours
of brimstone beneath your blazing eyes.

That catch in the pulse of your blood? Fire.
Your arteries kindle and the burn races tracerfire
to each finger, to feet, to face. Your heart

goes nova. Let the liquids run as in absence
of gravity, see the roil blistering the surface
of a sphere of water suspended - the water
is blood, is yours, and catches like paraffin.

Your hair is the first to go, ammoniac in burning,
each root sparking ozone and crackle, then flesh
melts from its scaffold bones. You are become your bones,

walking wrapped in capillaries of lightning,
orbits awash with molotov. Each footprint is fallout.
The thunder is the world's attempt to end you in rain,
yet it steams at each strike on your upraised arms.

Snowstorms and monsoons are fruitless,
only coating you further in hot cloud.
You are an eclipse. You plan to eclipse the stars.


How long is it now we have spent in this time that consents to be no time
for signs or seers? Let us pass over fearful assent for the pentecostal jabber -

bring me hyssop and furze to this hill, take hands to stare the sky through
to where your icon is, join our pantheon, your icon to mine, a river, a raindrop,

scale so hard at this distance it makes no difference and gives no guarantees -
yours may be a butterfly with cyclones in its ambit, may be a thundercloud

keeping one person dry. See far as you can, let me be spyglass
or comfort as is your need, but know I am no more the way

than are you.  What you need to know you never will, but let me hold you,
help you trust; there is faith in our hands held, we are all then each within every,

despite no sign but our own.  No sign is not the sign for no, we believe
although no sign for yes will come, this being no sign, and find a way

leaving, as signs, our footprints as in dew.


Dream is headfill, is only infrequent or forgotten.
What there is is rarely image, but instant knowledge
mainlined to backbrain - you have seen this, said this,
only now, dream is a shark while pinned to the raft,
the rafters of its gullet gothic and closing.

The place to which the world goes as eyes close
is where the laws come from, is why there are none;
that you cannot move is common, common as birth
and an offer of that, don't wake, accept the stillness,
the invite written in your immobility, and belong.

Dream is a thread from the invisible who want you,
it can lead you, but if you fight will break.
Do not wake. Do not try to. Let the teeth close,
you will see the vaulted arches spin around your sight,
a kaleidoscope of vision solely yours. Sleep.

     Andrew Bailey 2005