Stars of tragedy.
Stories of their untimely demise
Told soberly in newsprint.

Stretching from Africa to Mexico,
Victims of natural disasters, crime,
And of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

What was here is lost.
What was warm is forever gone.
These envelopes that remain can be stamped with anyone’s address.

In the end, it’s all the same
Dust
That settles in the melting ***:

Empty shells littering beaches,
Dried-out husks,
Vacant houses.

The clocks wind down,
and soon the Earth will spin
tightly again.

How many passes do we need
to take a conscious breath?
How many paths?

The curtain lowers
before the curtain rises again.
I find myself staring at the red velvet,

the in between.

They are the sky.
I am the earth.

They are taxi rides.
I am a river rushing.

They are eyes glued to a screen
when their companions long for real conversations.
I am the wind in silence.

They are ****-coloured beer.
I am black coffee and stout.

They are cell phone towers.
I am the stars.

They are poodles on leashes.
I am the lone wolf.

They are elevator rides.
I am off the beaten path.

They have forgotten their roots.
I am plugging in.

How my disappointments frighten you,
the scalding of hot tea that should be comforting.
Chocolate mint, I’ll tell you this: these are
the virgins I have sacrificed, only to give birth
to two. These are the dreams I have traded
for cold realities. The rain is no longer green
and peaceable. The ocean is a perfect stranger.
Sleep evades me; the pillow is no loving cradle.
I am serenaded nightly by the baby’s wail.
Frozen solid in winter’s cocoon, I long to unfold
my wings. And no matter where I come to stand,
violence permeates every space. There is no escaping
it. It is in the square. It is in the mean people, hard
as glass that does not break, unlike hearts that do.

1

Another space arrives. The newborn cries.
And the destiny determined:
Oven or matchstick.

Descendant of both; inheritor of another:
A machine that dreams itself into being,
Dragging its sleeping subjects after it.

Sustenance of nightmares, the food of what
God is, blood the earth pumps forth.
The plastic legacy is siphoned off,

Its artifacts cheap jewellery:
Enamel glinting white and turquoise.
Flimsy chains that never last,

And yet last forever, the paint flaking off.
So too does the rust on this delicate orchid.
It is an oracle of poisons.


2

The city burns in its incandescence.
The indelible halo
Of a lime-green candelabra

Makes light of midnight. Our slumber is
Punctured by gunshots and the drone of the
Ambulance.

Not a foot but a juggernaut,
Pandora’s box,
Sowing the seeds of your distress.

Fallout marks the potent epoch.
The neon octopus spews it back,
Invisible print on the murderous air.

Where water drinks
No diving bell can bear
The pressure of such fuchsia.

i.

Pink doesn’t play into it, that delicate
petal of perfume & flower stuff.
She abhors it.

Red suits her better.
Red for Fridays & red for Aries.
Red for the blood her dagger could draw.

Her seal of wax is no
rosebud adhered to
fine paper.

Warrior, she escaped its letter.
With Roman candles & Roman sandals,
sword, wand & chariot,

defender of her Eden.
Seashells are her votive gifts, the
stars of her Atlantic.

It is within her reign of Camelot.
At the edge of the Earth,
her kingdom dreams.




ii.

Blue maid
a curious ***** in her armour.
But she wouldn’t flinch

if an army of soldiers came crashing in.
They are hunting the witch.
A woman can never have such power.

It is reserved for the patriarchy
to wield at will.
Up it goes.

They can ***** steeples with it.
They are stoking the fires & sharpening
the axe with it.

But threats of torture
don’t make her beg, plead or recant.
She is guilty of nothing.

Even broken on the Catherine Wheel,
Athena still keeps her
bow & quiver intact.

Be a voice; not an echo*

somebody had written on the wall.

People are in love with echoes,

reverberating off walls of canyons,

in love with the sound

sounding off.

Nothing for me, they decide.

Nothing for the girl, lifting her hand

to caress the branches of trees

hanging overhead.

They want the familiar sounds

of girls

sounding off.