For all of us who know the pain

Of Valentines that never came

black storms rage in his eyes

fierce, frightening dust devils

making silent apocalyptic statements  

while searching for identity

recording the sound of color

black, white, red, green, blue

experiencing a drift of thought

as if floating in a dream

menaced suddenly by vowels

distorted, disconnected in delirium

he perceives a frequency in the air

like disturbed hidden speech

or a dream that cannot find

its alternative

and whose function it is

to study drug wasted features

of a skeletal torso

or to recall the unrelieved

immobility of time and place

to write the color of sound

how long has he been alone

he does not know

only that he is made of light

a non molecular form

that brings him into focus

a charcoal stencil

on the dimensional planes

of an imagined luminous sketch

that constantly flutters

like a black silk stocking

falling through space

forever tilted with expectancy

but impeded by a blank inertia

a stream of forms blown into light

but he has a relationship

a relationship with a double

dust jacket and book

for we form an indented regularity

mutant mannequins

stare from the shop window

visions of Venus de Milo

awaiting the hour to come alive

indecipherable simulations

anonymous

yet they have about them

a lacerating urgency

an elliptical and oblique

consciousness

that emits the light

of relative thought

establishing a symbiosis

of non gender

that stimulates the color of dreams

in unleashed silent appraisal

steeply angled eyes

supported by hollow cheeks

stare from a semi-circular mirror

with a dark consequence of outrage

like a constricted sunrise

that appears to float

a pictorial cryptogram

defying a resisted

notation of gravity

they are eyes that

momentarily fascinate

then frighten

for you can see yourself

falling through a deep hole

in their vision

causing a complete

dissociation of identity

steeply angled eyes

are watching, watching,

watching.....................

Inconclusive patterns
Form indented regularity
In flowing drifts
A panoply of tropical orchids
In my mind
A menaced distortion
Straining forward
Like an isolated image
In an old photograph album
Disclosing only the fragments
Of an insoluble puzzle
Its atmospherics of frequency
Disturbs me somewhat
It is identical to hidden speech
Or the resistance to time
Of exclamatory reminders
Of forward motion
That momentarily fascinates
Then falls through a hole
In a central vortex of vision
This is the architectonics
Of a thought
That can never be articulated

A stone terrain waits

A landscape deserted

Devoid of real

Or imagined explorations

For it turns inward

At a tangent that

Precludes inquiry

It has an articulation

Of slow deliberate movements

Where particularized

Geology has painted it

Cut off and disconnected

By an estrangement of creation

Other existences only serve

To magnify its sense of isolation

Its blank uncaring non-geometric

Dimensions of observable

Unquantifiable location is obscure

And unrealised

Producing an immediate

Initiated sensory experience

Of unreleased silent appraisal

But why does it wait?

What for

Does it anticipate or foresee

Some expected prediction

Of apocalyptic presentiment

Is it recalling color?

Or is it experiencing

The present like floating in a dream

Alas there is no clue

To its tilted yet frozen expectancy

A stone terrain waits