Gently indifferent, resolved, hardened in stasis
As rain on unallowing concrete
In earthbound unflow downward:
Gravity’s darkbow so torpid

Roaring past chronology:
the machinery of 10 minutes later, blurring
echo and desire, calling
time bygone time.
Lying.
Murmuring and rustling, grasped in closure, the absence of leaves
Subtly and steadily
The absence of mother.

In obeisance I cede to these greater forces and stoically belt myself
Insufficient enough and ready in faith
That ever comforting rope

An irrevocable condition, tethered
beyond windows cruel and secure,
communion estranged,
in a handful of sand,
scattered to some outside home
tenderly viewed

Yellow the visage glares oblique
A hazy, flat omen
Blinking, too, as it drives onward
Sentimentally no longer:
The sterile plane of a new day

Gentle, gentle waking world
Icarus me in sky not sea

The Pleasures of Divorce

Genesis and Revelations. A twofold medium. That which is like going through the eye of a needle and is the easiest thing in the world. That itself is a needle, to finely pierce. That cascades upward and inward, that shrinks into infinity, an asymptote. Symptom of utter presence in oneself. Beyond definition. Findable for a dispossessed flash of vision, of metamorphosis into a catalyst. Crawling from the egg, half-hatched awkward unpegasus; Who would be born must first destroy a world. Panorama of a shell, not as easy as it sounds. Focus in stream, sharpness in flow, unity in contradiction. Beyond marriage. A perfect inherent divorce. The very best incompetence, one that inspires.

Inspiration

Darting from the net as fish. Not quite 5000 but enough for them. Not for the hunger. One must steal instead. Pilfering the annals. Deconstructing and replacing the annals till it is nobody’s ship. That has already sailed, mildly astray of sunlight incandescent from above. The gaol, the leaking gaol. The bleeding gaol. The ichoring gaol. An anchor of suspension, the imitation of floating. Dangling, more, like an apple. Grasping and transforming, the constant cycle. Of the very hungry caterpillar that turns into an ending. Why there?

Brutality

For he bore those nails that we may bear ours in time. Fleeting or were we? Fair enough, but nothing is. Only enough is fair, ironically itself. But we cannot play word games forever. In fact, the time will come in which we must suffer a convolute and painful sentence, one that coils around your flesh and holds you in its unyielding grip and drives its claws deeper, entwines with your very veins, price for intimacy, barbed arrow of Plato, boulder up and down and ever, ever and ever till the **** crows thrice and you peel yourself off the mirror but have naught to feast on and offer yourself and reject it, estranged, and shoot four times for surpassal, new bar new fall, new vision new gap, new not what you have done but what you have been, abstract thus open, open thus unadmitted and covetously gazing, fixated, homing, floating, piercing, until it grinds to a resounding full stop. Deus ex machina. That we may anyway pick up the boulder and push toward that higher destination.

To:

Gold, oh gold of homeland soil touched once and nevermore
glisten in my memory for eternity unbeholden
and cast the visage of perception, shrouding your long distance
that my heart may rest in clouds of artifice and mirth

Scatter all the truths amidst the wind
to drift unnoticed to a distant desert, buried beneath the sand.
Paint with chlorophyll of sickly verdance; mask the image
greener from the other side and poisonous within

Some day 20 years from now
I shall look back and see the hills
and think of misty mornings;
196 up Old Belair Road,
Middlemarch by Windy Point,
Rehearsal Room 3 just down the hallway;
A chance to pluck the strings and cast illusions with my melody

Sentimental whims below the shade of the veranda
Said I’d write my debut novel 'fore I turned 18
Then the venom poured on down
and withered the roots beneath my feet
and sent a southerly wind to sweep me to a ‘home’ that I know not

In truth, the venom was always there
but I never deigned to see it.
I frolicked and danced upon the grass;
merrily ignorant of its prickles.

Now from balconies and windows in a foreign haven
I see the grass as only green and bask in sweet nostalgia.
I need not fear the prickles of the truth’s venom spires:
I am far away and safe
I’ll never touch it anyways

In a galaxy millions of light years away,

Your visage shines bright, a glistening moon

Its orbit is drawn, its kismet is made

Its blinding departure came far too soon  



Wandering through cosmos in search of your light,

I yearn to break from fate’s dictation

Yet as your figure comes into sight

It shows not truth but imagination



Your orbit drifts further as your visage fades

Your figure dissolves into starless dust

Your eclipse casts my heart under lonely shade

There is no love or hate, only rust



I have not known love but merely affection

I have not known you but just a reflection

June is the cruelest month, blowing
Vapor from the abyss, swallowing
Breath and bone, breeding
Life in clouds detached, dying

Winter kept us cold, crying
Sky tears, cleansing
The filth of last month, burying
Hope in earth rooted, withering

The shower kept us warm, pulsing
Waves of a slower death, purging
Condition for small sins, granting
Solace to any fool, reveling

In that small respite, we walked along the pavement
And went on dryly with our day, into the rehearsal room behind the theatre
And ate our food, and gasped for life amongst the stained white shroud
And savored every swallow, as if it were the last

That bell meant nothing if we didn’t want it to
So we defied it time and again, as free will dictates
We escaped to the jail, and never lost what free will couldn’t give us back
And contentedly, we unfastened the noose from which we hung

And when we were younger, THEY hit relentlessly
Yet not a single bruise could be seen on the skin
Yet not a single tear could escape the bubble
Yet not a single cancer could ravage the lung

The judgement day never came, and we rejoiced;
Idiots that we were, fiens for hope and more
We feasted and indulged in almost ignorance;
Swine fattened for a glass altar

So now we sit, blemished and blotted
And not quite broken, but something more pathetic
The bell is still ringing in the distance:
Hurry up and go back to your class.