THE UNPAINTED HILTONS

You see I am surrounded by these things

a medium like breathing under water,

the Royal Bokhara, the pictures on the wall

I wave as I float by with transparent hands.

My wife's sexy dress hanging there

taken off like a season transformed,

and the organic food jumps into my mouth

as your warm arm falls across me.

The light from the floor landscapes your sleep

and those would be cabbage roses descending,

like red kisses on your perfect cunt

around the dim margin he is on his knees.

Then the great secret settles on everything,

you're sleeping and I launch out into darkness;

ivy pours into the courtyard, I'm half drowned,

face emerging in Spring - Dionysus.

Even the island I speak from is painted by Hilton,

to the rhythm of dropped seeds into instant oleander

and open mouthed cats into swaying boughs;

the riot of ants know the plan

and blue drips from the mighty swimmer.

Interior darkness dissolves in the air

and perfect weather wraps us bodies;

hand in hand like nerve ending sex

my eyes have seen the glory

riding in on a big clam shell.

Let the breeze stir and sing,

lift the shirt off the girl with ample breasts

and cool the hairy god slumped in the breakers;

the two master is trim, we're ready to leave,

the white circuit snaps and ignites.

The all-sea shines lit from below,

childrens' voices scud across the bay

quick ripples enskied in acrylic;

- will you wait for me there?

on the shore of the morning world.

I think of the fields at night,

the compact Celtic geometry

laid over with darkness

and the black sea rising.

The Gulf of Sleep invades my room,

waves rise with each breath

drowning thought under the door,

go down you beasts, you bastards.

In the compass of the sea

I am abandoned, absolute,

but let me keep the way

of talking to my children.

The lights on the other side

shine out clear and bright,

my boat is one word sent

in the language of my painted hands.

The shape of morning rises,

white ribbons of light

unravel across the sliding waves,

momentary chart of all the sea lanes of the world.

If this window opens on the world of free running senses;

your filthy mind in the cart pulled by my bonny horse

- see she carrapaces, treading the liquified air

falling like amber on us sorry bodies,

so that our limbs are restored, magically proportioned,

and we lie and roll and walk in one another,

the anthropometric secret in our hands at last

as easy as talk floats out of the bedroom door

across the evening laid out in this land of good weather;

the game is up - and if the window doesn't etc the game is up:

we must settle for the living creatures we have about us,

and that would be the Hilton in this earthly paradise

awake in a sea of trees breathing underground,

ambidextrous, prolific and grinning.