i will not mute my purr
to pounce on a teasing string
winding along the filthy floor
or pause the paw bath of my fur.

i am the disciple of this poetic discipline
unwilling to betray my art
for any amount of silver coins
or ruby-lined diamond rings.

money and even security fall
relegated into the plaything tier
in the kingdom with me where my voice
though without the skill of king Midas
speaks truth, reigning supreme.

i have too much pride to stand-by
while my artistic spirit is cast aside
in the name of peace or long-legged favour
dressed in a short skirt
egging me on to lustfully submit.
  

for my pride
i will keep thrusting until i die

the cold squeezes out
every drop of these heavy
lemon-juice teardrops;
while my hunger has me so light
that my inflated thoughts
carry me above townhouse smoking chimneys
and through the angry grey
bubble-bursting clouds
into airborne pedestrian prison.

plagued by corkscrew aching pain
in my back,
from sitting on milk-crate chairs
and writing on slippery concrete stairs
outside the train-station
of deafening smokestack'd lightning shrieks;
my nerves are shot
with eggshell fragility.

the stabbing cold wind
spikes and stabs
through the barbed-wire scars
of my jeans and jerseys
leaving me twitching,
and jolting
with indecipherable handwriting
on crucifix crossed t's
and grave holes
on the misplaced dots of tired I.

I smiled at a walking-stick man today
after I underlined a poem
at the finish-line full-stop,
and his granite frown
transformed into a wet clay lampshade
shining smiling face -
glowing from his kisser
to his tapping toes
with the singing spring in his step.

I passed a sobbing dollhouse girl
with melting ice-cream
dripping onto her stockings
and splashing her buckled-shoes,
who forgot all about
her spilt milky dessert,
when I offered her a NikNak chip
from my 10 cents orange disco packet.

my desolation dissolved
in those forgotten human moments
of tribal days;
where my joy returned
flushing colour into my cheeks
and the bleak winter
burned with life.

twenty seven came and went
              three strikes, not out

first: a stomach pump curve ball
ejecting the dissolving pills
            second: cushioned by an airbag
after speeding down a swerving hill
                  third: plucked out of the night air
from a fourth-floor windowsill.

    i followed the path
from calculator comfort and white picket calm
down into the servitude on the page of starvation's storm.

rain poured on my hamuvtakhat-bound parade
                                  bringing flooding waves
as my day in the sun became a funeral march.

i was sold barbwire-framed torture
disguised as a gypsy painted picture

  to spend old and new moon nights
under hard fluorescent light
with my black-ink ballpoint pen
        chained into my hand
fixed fast like a magnet to a needle
and silver spoon.

****** maidens crossed that path
soon to depart
at the first off-ramp chance
unwilling to share the back-breaking burden
of my cross shaped tombstone
        which i may never remove -
lest the slack rope strangle my neck
stealing a final cigarette laced breath.

under flashing technicolor lights
a lady dressed in white lace
tripped over my drunk stumbling body
falling into the sinking sand of my mind.

i pray that i may hold her hands again
and sing our star-crossed lullaby
before my curtain-call night calls me
ushering me to rest in that dream kingdom
beyond the sky.

prelude

sitting
strumming
steel strings
blackbirds feed and sing

speeding cars pass
rattling ice cubes
in a whiskey glass

on the wall
a misty painting
where blue smoke
and cherry trees
meet

    fade in

curtains open
spreading the scene
for hungry eyes
wide

absorbing
every trace
in a dizzying
trance

lights flash
reflecting
three masked figurines
slumping in a stupor
weaving their dance

cast a bone
on stage
prism horsemen
fly

fur coats
fall flaming
lending hands
at crossroad skies

roll over
listen
whispers laced bright
lips turn white
clenched teeth bite silent
dying of the night

    fade out

darkness spreads
peeling off the backdrop
walls close
through you

dressed in costumes
buttons and zips
the rail leans empty
fading into mist

follow the road
down the blinking tunnel
funneling scripted verse

bowing in roses
spread
across the floor
disappearing in a blink
falling
through the trapdoor

curtains wail
shrieking
halting to a close

words dead
finished
burnt pile of ash
buried pages
torn into pieces
scattered in the trash

    au revoir

wenn du lange in einen abgrund blickst, blickt der abgrund auch in dich hinein

I
as a child you painted the sun
shining with your burning smile

you sang in school halls,
sailor laced pubs and broken bottle bars

in button-up paisley shirts
and alligator boots your moves shocked electric

skull composed rock n roll rhythms mixed,
blending with blues to fret board machine gun shots

reaching beyond the realm of ocean and sand
standing on the shoulders of giants

drinking and bathing in the ancient fruit
your mind hypnotized, floating through the cosmos

supernova sensations exploding, shining
into looping black hole visions of the afterlife

walking in the darkness of a steel moon
a shadow illuminated over hades from bare balconies

II
school was a prison
blurred by dimming medication,
your prism mind
strapped in a straitjacket

mechanical marching orders
fell on deaf ears
a broken cacophony
sparking flames in the rain
where weeds grew with flowers
dancing in the breeze
setting Eden alight

III
riding on the smoke train
from green stations
and university radio studios
until the tracks turned white
disembarking the disenchantment highway

facing the music
saving face
one less grave with your name

IV
you gave your jacket to grey bearded vagrant
naked, hysterical, freezing on the streets

waves of disease blew across oceans
hitting you homeless and clothesless, drowning

war tore through towns, crippling the lost
while your inner tug of war, ripped the seams

ink reflections swim on those pages
revealing the cost of eternal darkness

phoenix rise from cigarette ash ******* heaps
get back on your feet before you fall deeper

the monsters you face aim to take your place
from a mirror to the underworld, dragging you beneath

shine once again
shine one last time before the end
shine on
everlong.

                  jeder, der mit monstern kämpft, sollte sicherstellen, dass sie selbst kein monster werden

to: The Decembrists, bricklayers, Arthur Meursault, Leonard Cohen & the Somerset West public library

    I
at the foot of my altar
a candle burns at both ends

running out of gas, a dying star
shines through the skylight
magnified
sparking a flame.
the veil catches ablaze
burning in half
top to bottom
revealing a million
scattered puzzle pieces
lying below a gold spray-painted calf.

in the pile of ash, that was my altar
lies a pool of melted wax.

    II
standing behind a pulpit
facing a mirror
at the base of table mountain.  
my sermon floats in a bubble
towards the summit
before bursting into a blind
hollow orbit.

    III
staring down the barrel of a dead rubber
the deck is loaded
and the dealer has my number.

absurdity is my only ally
while the chairs are packed
with strangers

my chips are all blank
while i sit chained to the board
in titanium shackles.

    IV
carrying the burden of empty bags
flying a kite dressed as a dusty white flag

this name is a weight
too heavy for my slight shoulders

my body is torn
hanging on all three crosses

denied thrice
of a seat on the throne
the roll of my dice
will eventually take me home

hineni
hineni
i'm ready my lord.

a gramophone set on a plaque
spins an entangled equinox of sound
stirring the empty white room
where drifting comet paintbrush strokes
splash from palette
onto the canvas
filling pencil sketched stencil outlines.

behind the blank stare
a melting box of crayons
leak into the canyon pocket of the rotten
rusty mind's trapdoor opening
dripping in a kaleidoscopic waterfall curtain
of a rainbow explosion.

thousands of fragments
float in a broken magnetic field
unable to link into the cutout space
created by the lost curator
inside that blank gallery
where the erosion of the memory bank valley
fills with silt and debris.

photographs held in place
by safety pins and sticky tape
dissipate into a foggy dusk
where faces are bleached
unraveling into distant
smudged post-stamp silhouettes.

bitter pills dissolve with yogurt
in halls where caretakers lift the lid
exposing an echo ringing uncertain
as diluted voices
sing hollow songs
under a needle pin in the distance.

withered flower petals fall
landing on a riddle filled diary
set on top of a dusty nightstand
while the ticking grandfather clock
strikes another hour
bringing the end of the final chapter
ever closer.