By Jim Bellamy



            Giant whispering and coughing machines,
            But the Quietus shaped by thieves
            Broadcasts from a churchyard sleeved
            With coats that serve as muscle:
            The wavebands glowing overpower
            The rabid storms of chording where
            Your child hands clap against the air.

            Beautifully devout before a spent
            Cascade of money pours from out
            A vast resettling of drums. Thence
            Begins the mental struggles of arcane
            Girls, who may not dance upon a floor
            Nor faces inside faces prick music.

            Vast Sundays and organ-frowned spaces
            Leave dark emptied trees behind
            Seas, where sotto voce tames the race
            Of gaoled men; and the sureness of
            Faith will dive into the bays and quays
            Which seem too straight or still-born.

            The light of rock attunes to sound
            But this noise contests the altar-lit
            Grounds of life’s lurch, groomed with
            Minds which govern sadness from ground
            Teas, but still the coffees of the earth
            Grind to dust the magmas of bent birth.

Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied at Oxford University. He has written thousands of poems and won three awards for his poetry. He tends to write in a bit of a fine frenzy. He adores prosody.

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