The Anthropologists
Together we walk through a flight
of trees and the sound is late.
Below us the wind is like a fountain
of green mist practising to become
water. We follow its history with
high powered glasses, where the last
rays of sun burn in a valley of wood.
We camp on the floor of its destiny
with the distance of art. You restrain
my imagination. I see the sign of a
struggle, where animal blood licks my
skin with a tongue of dark paste.
It smells of rational noises. I rip open
its belly to rid myself of its secrets and
wine. Its breath twitches in a mouth
of dead sparks.
I show you how to cut slices of raw air.
We take samples of its light. On the pencil
of my finger we draw pictures of its vision.
On mystic prairies we part like blinds of dust.
I choke on mysteries. I wind a clock that
sparkles like a tin of stars. The soul
approaches rock and sand, where hope
guides us and my home is scattered with joy.
Memories of Auschwitz
Beware the son of voices
blowing
through a hall of flames,
where the dead pass in a
furnace of continuous light.
Speak of nothing other than
the state of air.
Find among pariah’s of stone
a vast stadium of wells and
drink from the
depths of its bearded mouth.
Its jaw is blinded with pictures
of love.
Its eye is torn with feet of knives.
Its wooden flag is
lowered with charismatic kisses.
Its soul is filled with
the graves of God and children.
The sound of blood is clean, where
bodies of smoke
with sweet juices from rags of meat
burn like
rivers out of endless resurrections.
The Endeavour
On the carcass of water by a rock
of mouthing falls
I bring the seaman’s tide, sweeter
than blood, destroyer of my wood.
I see the truth of silence but its hand
is cold with trees and flowers.
In the bush I see far away on tracks
of light a pool of drowning colours.
I dream in green pictures of ropes and
space to tie each sailor’s eye to water.
I pray to each desolate
sound the return of my blinded guests.
The anchor I root out of undrawn sand
is like a foot with sails.
I release all its secrets in ribbons of air.
Sharp as fate the
wind on my sea of disappearing voices.
Austin Mclarron
Austin Mclarron is from New Zealand but has lived in London for many years. Austin's work has appeared in various magazines in the U.K. over the past five years.
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