Aaron Kent: Hibernation Guide

Father, I had a dream, you dug 
eight holes, added children 
and funeral lamps for Bird  
music. A narration lasted  

an orchestral score through 
an award season. Changes  
in nature were determined  
by developers of air  

conditioning systems: the dead  
were trapped in the snow.  
We had no choice but to 
wait-and-be-great fathers. 

I’ve always known the Snow Lazarus’  
sanctum as its sadness: light sources  
in despair and speed. ‘Do not be afraid  
to sleep, it’s necessary if you are to

explode off the scene.’ Dad, 
if I have to stay [principles of love; 
silver dust] – I will do so  
in love with memory rather than 

The owl! A noose! January!  
How do we remember what we need  
[right now]? Back on stage,  
and you haven’t offered me a corpse, 

just a reminder that human pain 
is a mouldy blue even when we miss aching,  
and get married. You’ll make sure  
it doesn’t work. Reprise, Reprise, 

Bird-song: how the tempo works: 
I gave your gift to nature: storm [rain /  
snow], a convergence of forecast: try  
to find me in an avalanche. The first eight  

metres sometimes need a candle;
a Birthday Cake in draft form, 
a love you swept under my mother’s 
carpet. If you don’t smile, 

Dad, I’ll be honest now,  
I’ll be in the cemetery, I’ll see you  
tomorrow. And the haunting 
is different in this ground:  

life flows, can not stand.  
Parenting is a justification  
of the dream’s situation, 
eight holes / no cake / a dampness. 

I propose we start waking by killing 
respiratory memory.  
That should drown before  
we leave the ship. Concentrated  

cyanide for breakfast,  
and lobotomies twice a day;  
there is no harmony in conspiracy

Father. The end of your disease  
is a loss of love of art with a loss  
of love of exposure to corruption.  
I’m a fox here. Let me know  

the conditions when the time  
is right for re-emergence.