Another Plane

Do gods watch me soar
Through the sky – a ladder
To be climbed, higher, higher
Relentlessly up and through
The uninterrupted blue,
As I find myself in
Another plane.

Alone in the almost ozone
With only thoughts
And a body, mid-transplant,
Mumbling adopted, magnet sighs.
My passport ironic in my pocket;
Home-swapped.

The plane-trail propels me onwards
On a slick of cloudy railroad,
And I leave behind uncertainties
And a burst ceiling of clouds
Discarded like clothes on the floor.

And instead, I watch the earth
Flower and roll below:
Alpine mountains like towering mothers,
Clouds clinging like children,
The crumpled paper peaks of earth
Crashing around like a foaming tide.

But this is an aluminium bubble
In a blue, full, pint glass of air,
And the plane continues rising, rising,
Floating up to the top
As though the sky is nothing
More than a liquid morning prayer:

Icarus-like, we continue
Towards the sun.
But there are no myths
In this abyss of modern ages.
The magic is defunct;
Revealed; routine.

Insulated to the awe, the world
Revolving, a hummingbird buzz,
We fly through the epochs of gazed heavens,
Conquering miracles and puncturing the sky

Because we forge divinities ourselves
And now live them momentarily.

Trash TV

That is not a television screen
You are watching but a mirror –
I think, unwillingly
Setting with the evening,
Searching for mindless passivity in the TV
After another day falling over new words
Like my tongue is a toddler learning to walk.

But flickering through the channels
Nightly, I see the mute brigade:
Tall, blonde, acolytes
Paraded out in single-file
Like jets in formation
And walking like they’re missing
Collars tight around their necks
In clothes barely stitched past idea.
An Italian TV trope so common
They have only their own noun.

Clearly, they’re not meant to be people
But to the audience this must be palatable,
Because I watch with my foreign eyes
In silence, waiting for an outcry.
These are not women, stripped –
But nameless, lifeless beauties;
Tottering blow-up dolls, rolled out like vellum
Flanking the liver spots of the Hefner presenter.

A blinking apostate, reflecting in the glass.
The room bathes in grey, grainy beams
Of an arriving fantasy, fifty years too late.
Is this Venus and Cleopatra reincarnate?
My English sensibilities, glaring
Like silver chewing gum foil

In the Mediterranean sun;
My dropped jaw, culturally dislocated.