I left her waiting in international radio waves.
\nA voice drifting between Western Siberia and Peking.
\nMinus nine but spring will come;
\nyou will ditch your great coat and famous automatic
\nfor music and dip a toe in the water again.
\nSomeone’s secret code has been broken on the wall
\nbetween the mountains and the palace.
\nTiny taps of a finger shocked into motion
\nlike the hooves of horses tracking back along the steppe.
\nI left the compound radiator sleeping
\nand dragged through shadows of birds and dogs.
\nAbove the wind the incomprehensible speech of satellites.
\nIt is no-one’s fault if we do not make our way home.
\nThe mountain goats and bears leave footprints on Ararat
\nand disappear; the sailors climb over oceans
\nrevamped by electricity.<\/p>\n
Karl Marx<\/strong><\/p>\n Karl Marx was right: Anything like religion will do But they leave the boys and girls to their own devices. the automatic doors don’t let you out The man at the back of the room Beside Caravaggio’s \u201cThe Taking of Christ”<\/strong><\/p>\n The woman leaning on a doorway, descending into art herself. Leaning on a doorway, bending towards the eyes hanging Dublin, 6th June 2007<\/em><\/p>\n By Alan Jude Moore<\/strong>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":119,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"ngg_post_thumbnail":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-3576","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3576","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/119"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3576"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3576\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3576"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3576"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3576"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nthe world is full of networks and history
\n \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0moves forward like death.<\/p>\n
\nas the opium of the people.
\nAccountants and corporate presidents administer the stuff
\nlike priests in the administration of souls.<\/p>\n
\nThe TV sighs like a sacred cow,<\/p>\n
\nand the elevator hangs between the moon and Las Vegas.<\/p>\n
\nin the desirable suit,
\nsays his network falls apart almost every week.
\nAlmost every week he starts back into it again.<\/p>\n
\nSlight veils suspended between them.
\nPinned to the stars as if waiting for something
\nlike the leaves changing in October, then to reveal
\nher world to His; the end of summer broken on the rooftops
\nand the sky a burning city.<\/p>\n
\nof her picture Christ. Both of them captured by unnatural light.
\nHer longing for a devastated saviour,
\nsuspended on the wall,<\/p>\n
\nforever
\nbetween us.<\/p>\n![\"ajm11.jpg\"](\"https:\/\/www.3ammagazine.com\/3am\/\/wp-content\/uploads\/2008\/10\/ajm11.jpg\")
\nABOUT THE AUTHOR<\/strong>
\nAlan Jude Moore<\/a> was born in Dublin. His poetry has been widely published in Europe and America and his fiction has been twice short-listed for the Hennessy Literary Award for New Irish Writing. His work has been translated into Italian and Russian. Two collections of poetry, Black State Cars<\/em><\/a> \u00a0(2004) and Lost Republics<\/em><\/a> \u00a0(2008), are published by Salmon Poetry.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I left her waiting in international radio waves.
\nA voice drifting between Western Siberia and Peking.
\nMinus nine but spring will come;
\nyou will ditch your great coat and famous automatic
\nfor music and dip a toe in the water again.
\nSomeone’s secret code has been broken on the wall
\nbetween the mountains and the palace.
\nTiny taps of a finger shocked into motion
\nlike the hooves of horses tracking back along the steppe.<\/p>\n