Seaside Carillon

The heart beats in the formless sea,
circles and triangles swim with songs,
And the soft current
sways the boy like a hyggelig-anesthetised kelp.

The boy is home.

Bells ring out for the waves.
Alarms, all-too-false alarms
but the boy is called.

The moon is turning.

A wave rolling against a steel door,
a dead thud of control versus uncontrol,
Till the metal splits –
Bursts onto our ears
In thrusts and heaves of
Sound.

Thrusts and heaves of sound,
As noiseless as this sentence.

A whale corpse
Shunted over rocks,
Bursting a confetti of bells.

The ripped middle,
Launched up like a royal swan
Shaking on the hook of a Hutu drummer.

Feathers thrashing, breasts alive,
Waves swarming with fevers of
Hypnotic dance.

Spirals and siphons of joy,
Fuelled only by the
Rhythm of the waves.

This is that battle that battle there,
With rain and storm - whatever you imagine

The order protection, the category blip
the etching and egging it’s a nothing but oh -

What is this beat, this wombing
sea-beat!
This sea-beat
that shoves us so?



The quarry produces,
the boy tugs stone.
The captive's new house
a defibrillator,
A scaffold of metronomes.

Twenty-three bells heard
From the sea,
Dry and
Stable.

Pillared in rock,
Clocked and measured,
Dusty and snug,
Like a grandma at tea.

Thick waves drum thunder no more.

The tower frowns like an ogre,
Flat bells on dry sand.
AA battery morning of
Toneless hope.



The great composer has finished his air.
Men jiggle,
Excited in their wicker seats.

,
Thrashing bushes with his
Rush-wood blade - the boy runs fast through the forest
'The great composer has finished his air!'

But gasp, his throat won’t move,
Shhhwwssshhwwwsssshhwwww
- the Waterfall!

The flow is thick,
Water chugs like a
Mudslide.

The relief of the post-coital gulp.
The rushing, the booming, the
Rolling of rhythm.
Rocking as a younger him in the
Arms of the shore.

He almost drowns.

Out rush ready
To the great performance!

His feet are full of drums,
Bell ring tinkle at the forest rim,
Witch-shapes carving the human hymn.

Then sat in this stillness of aching still.
Prescient chimes make love like a hand drill.
The boy beats his palm on his thigh.



Bound to the mountains,
Sheepskin and sticks,
Beating his feet to the foreign water.

Swooning his head into loops of rhyme,
Jolts of numeric flooding his spine,
Sweeping and floating like a paintbrush in brine,
Like a juicy-goat of music lust.

And the rocks of the tower ached to swell but
Stones don't creak.
And the steel of the dam yearned to sing but
Metal can't speak.

And the music kept rising
heap upon heap,
An unfettered genie
a Xylophone keep.

As the runes of the water that were only
A beat, came thumping and springing and
Rearing to leap.
And the boy broke twisting his
Under-swell deep.


A drop in the ocean;
Man at his peak.


'Sounds like a guy going for a piss in a club' J. Barrington-Hines