Discourse by David Russell

David Russell

He was the foam on the backwash of conversation,
Repelled by the safety-pier;
Seeming to crave a knife to answer
The upward wave-choppings,
He felt as if there were an invisible plastic partition
Segmenting the round, globular flatness
Of all within his view –
A tank, cramping and inflexible
To cramp that perfect essence.

Blocks and straight lines
Came recently
Primordially, only old wind and moon-chop
Potters’-wheeled old clay round to a crate;
Man needed to do no more.

The wave-chop was a gesture of resistance to
The declining curve,
As was the invisible partition

Papier-maché, salted, to model the pier
The element distilled for an abundance
Of boiling water
To pour into the great distributive tea-urn;
Punctuated pouring of water into myriad cups
                         For questing customers –
Each with its milk-dollop put in beforehand,
Facing tentacle lips            pens swaying on strings

Waters of cardboard that he would have to drink,
Downward flow of ink, forward flow of light
From the projector-cavern – an airy iceberg.

Borehole where the wrecked ship
Had its only portal for the entry of
Of hindsight and sanity –

Converse of the upward stretch
of the ascending droplets
from the urn-pourer’s carelessness

So making moon-petals,
Cutting through the sheets of ink
In that particular abattoir

Discourse by David Russell 1

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