Haiku?

From time to time I take the notion to write Haiku. Except, they are not 17 syllables long, and observe none of the rules of Haiku. They do, however, arise out of a moment of perception. Sometimes. What Zen might call Kensho. Or they might be Senryu. Execpt they are not satirical, and not particularly concerned with people. Anyway, I'll post them, for what they are.

Who am I?
What am I?
The day slides by outside:
A cold and distant plaque of light and noise.

I was running.
A flower!
I hurtled past it along an adrenalin corridor.

Snowdrop
Photography of an instant
Clear, real

Reality-coordinate:
Snowdrop’s
Magnesium bell.

The fly-cobra
That danced in front of me at twenty fathoms
Breath in
Breath out

Preserved by the retina
The lightbulb’s
Bones

Wet pebble, evening star:
Small pieces
Of a high-fidelity world.

What luck
My teeth deflected
The bee!

Yawning, the dog
Reveals
A Romanesque interior.

Granular earth
Patrolled
By mighty-headed ants.

Odours of earth
Released
By the impact of raindrops.

Leaf-shadow
Inscribed on stone:
Sunreality.

Querying
Decapitated torso
Breath in
Breath out

In the mirror: an iris,
Etched there
By Lysergic Acid Diethalymide.

Inward detonation!
Where we eavesdrop and lipread
As if through a microscope.

Ground-Zero hush
That photographs
The bones of the soul.

Spiral staircase
Centred
On an ion.

Where the membrane
Flares to ash
And, blinking, open-mouthed, we receive.

In it’s jewelled vestments
Born of the meat of this world:
The adjective.

A glimpsed Goldfinch
Releases this
From the Ego-machine!

At the brittle horizon:
Our dead,
with their infitesimal gestures.

Petroleum meadows.
Through a heat-warp
An ascension of larks.

Adrenalin supernova
Fuelled by
The grains of our dust!

We are flies! We are flies!
Electron detailing
In the eye of the Mantis, watching.

Cape Cod, 1971. Wave bye-bye to the camera….
Childhood
Encased in silence.

The click of a flea
In a quiet room.
Truly, I am hunted by things that are glossy and implacable.

Who am I?
What am I?
Fractal galleries
Of Self…

Electron micrograph of speech:
Moonscape
In which the virus moves, in search of our best intentions.

October. Trees
Disintegrating
In a cold wind.

Mighty sky of depth and stars
Regard me, here,
thin-armed and squeaky voiced.

As if Sirius was it’s tool
Silence engraves
Across a clear sensorium.

Big sky. Little me.
My cilia
Stir in the wind.

So cold the Quince tree, now it is November.
My spine
Recognises it.

Boneless mind, rejoice!
Those peristaltic
Rivers of limestone…

Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee………!
Time-lapse
Review of life.

Woodgrain, teacup, rise up
Renewed,
Hard and detailed, beyond my jurisdiction.

Like a knuckle
The mind,
Under a migraine’s glistening ceiling.

Lightning, ragged landscape. Where the demiurge
Cuts shapes
With a chainsaw.

There it is! My Tonka truck,
Frozen into
Memory’s floor.

The luminous plaque of the Insect-O-cutor
Coolly imbues
The nearby willow.

All night long, the pop
And sizzle
Of exoskelatanous insects.

A rain of parts…where grasses
Crunch
Underfoot.

Stitching a marshmallow
Into the grass:
Threads of fungi.

Cracked, golden interior
Of the willow
Hit by lightning!

Attic floorboards spiced
With dust…gone!
How upright and offices I have become!

Full moon. Willow trees
Animate
With waterfall and skeleton.

Under streetlamps, our neighbours
Chrysler
With its metal fish-face.

On the concrete wall:
My shadow.
Just one thing more in this world

On the retina:
Zig-zags.
Fireflies on the verge of cuneiform.

Who or what is writing this?
Again he tries
To read his own eyesight.

Speeded-up crowds
On Saint Peter’s Square: they shimmer
Like rain.

On the floor of the Duomo:
Migratory
Plates of shadow.

Dying even as I unhook it:
Zinc trout, cold,
Ontology’s monstrance.

Even so, choreiform butterflies
Wobble onwards
With their busted gyroscopes.

Cabbage White: fragile dignity
Dogged at the heels
By life’s lopsided wobble.

In the hot glare of the desk-lamp:
Slow plunge
Of a dust speck.

In the eyepiece: viscuos
Miicroscopic world.
But our mouths disintegrate even as we cry in wonder.

I advance, loosening
Like river foam
Or a creature made of Alka Seltzer.

Seen in a monstrance of sunlight
A frosted tree
Makes a meaning. I am illiterate.

On the darkening lawn
A blackbird
Reads the grass.

Dead pig hanging
From a butchers hook. It, too, is part of
The world-mobile.

Butcher’s shop: dead chickens dangling
From their snapped
Chains of being.

Dead leaves disperse…
Are we just nourishing
Our spines?

A blackbird at dawn
Presents itself
As a liquid.

On the forest path: a bird’s
Intact skeleton.
Daylight a slow Hiroshima.

In the wood of the threshold:
Bullet holes
Of Spirochaeta Pallida.

Dry, granular snow
Sizzles
In the fir tree.

Distant snowhills:
Eternity’s
Contingent ceramics.

January. A cold wind
Enhances
My hard skull.

Seen from the Intercity train at night:
The lit interiors
Of other people’s homes.

At the graveside:
Rows of polished shoes,
Hard-soled.

World-mountain of iron.
Blood on
My forehead.

Vale of Leven cemetary.
Polished gravestones
Wink in the passing lights of cars.

Ribonucleic birdsong!
An alien hermeneutic
Infects me.

Uspstreet, a dog’s barking
Amplified
In a concrete stairwell.

Hard sheets of sound
Blank out
The mouthed prayer.

He reinterprets himself,
Thinly reflected
In storm windows.

The breath, boxed
In warm timber, where it hides
Under Anna’s porch.