Her mouth glittered agape
With sacred promise,
Like a box of unused
Still in the wrapper
For sale at a
When you’d rather live
In a car
Than the zombie stance
Of a modern house,
Clean and soulless
With a hermetically sealed lawn,
Winter pageantry draws to a close
With bogan’s shooting-
Pearly eyed paupers
With constellations in their gaze.
With eyes full of hope and stars
That burnt bright and fade for
Flickering lens light.
Their voices murmur soft
As only the ephemeral things are whispered of –
The addicts of ideals
The junkies of hope
The drinkers of despair
Have tiger soft tongues.
They lap and feast gladly,
From broken vessels
Chipped with hazardous teeth
That seek to fill their
Ermine mouths with the ******
Stumbling through wine-hour
They swarm, with tongues ******
And all constellations burnt out.
The hyacinth rides wild
Upon her shoulder,
Writhes in the silver brunt
Writhes in the stillness of dead perfume.
Marching to the beat
Of my enemies drum,
My hands inside my pockets.
Little bluebirds spun from dream
Sit on the holy perch,
A branch in all innocent minds.
The redeemed and patient
Make a subtle art from
Long distance perversions.
Similarly as we chase ghosts over Daffodils.
Fields of winter
under lunar glow
sway without us.
Long distance love
lingers with loose lust
along Regret street.
I hung it next to the memory
Of childhood cooking and Indian summers
Without further thought.
It slipped into the novel that took the form
Of an old coat, slipping into the lined pocket
It sank with a sigh.
Satisfied with itself.
Bombarded by the pounding
Dead eyed stare of ***** goddesses,
Broken by the undisputed angelic
And unglued ones,
All moon faced
All hopelessly optimistic
All lawfully rebellious
With green serenity
We pasted our dreams
On a wall so real it shone gossamer.
He counted the imperfections in the glass
With mind hesitation
As the whole world went black,
In a sea of much deserved discontent,
Wishing for the soft.
A moment of pure luck?
Jesus was an astronaut
Smoking Zen by the fire.
never had you in sonnets?
What a ******' shame.
Our life is but a song
We never hear.
I chipped away at the excesses
of my baroque person,
each strike took a
from the battlements.
All left now, a hill.
I paid for my banquet
with a sip of loneliness
and left behind the question
that asked all quiet poets
the meaning of love,
that asked all quiet poets
to answer with a villanelle
shouted from every
They sent the troopers
to greet me instead,
and my library was put in shackles,
and I kissed their ***** feet.
I answered that I carved this mountain
from the baroque bedrock
upon which they laid their city.
They smiled and asked about the aqueducts.
I wept and spoke of kitchenettes.
A meal provided
on a lead cast plate
my jailor asked about freedom
I answered with defeat.
There were two atoms
One questioned the meaning of existence
The other the existence of meaning.
-Regardless they looked the same.
An apple on a branch,I took
The same way history takes a footnote.
The same way cashiers are all doctorates.
The same way trains find the station.
The same way you sing like a bird (and I like a cow).
The same way we never really wish to be writers.
The same way our final friend is made of pine.
The same way all streets lead to nowhere.
The same way all jobs **** society.
The same way we always lie to our children.
The same way a man loves a woman.
The opposite way we ****.
The opposite way we make love.
The way that I know a man who’s totem animal is a worker ant and he is unemployed by choice.
The same way we take old memories and turn them into fashion.
The very same way all sacred things become profane and all profanity becomes sacred in the eyes of many.
Dying relic of the Optimistic Seventies,
A new coat of paint for the old irony
-slap dashed with obscurity.
Although I wear the costume of my enemy,
I will write the exaltation in blue smoke
As **** by an unsuspecting victim
Occurs in the dark.
The face of another love stares down at me.
Yet I know it is not her.
A sudden method sparks revival.
Jackie Pleasure wore a gray smile,
The anthem of a lost generation:
‘Happiness is lost in smiling.’
You are dead to me,
the boatman calls
I will not taste of your amber lips
I will not taste.
The welfare of all never hinged on darkness as we fear the fall,
A multitude of angels sang their songs
And never learnt to say goodbye
Or cast a long distance eye
Over half spent desire.
Drawn out caricatures,
Flirt with our mistress death
And have her pick up the tab.
She pays with silent music.
The ***, we learn, is a bridge
Between all words and waltz’s,
Our Light Brigade to conquer art.
In the twilight of this, our mansioned night
Let us ring out true with indulgence,
Excess, abandon and the call of ‘yes’
Kali rang on the wire of a golden telephone.
Like a quarrelsome minotaur
Flew through the waves of silk ideal
And strangled the babe
With cool breath.
There was ice (oh yes!) and fire and song.
With our candles burnt down to the ash of all streets
We walk then. We walk.
All life is but a song.
The ghosts of all forgotten stamps
Now echo on the wind of speech.
On High! Oh speak!
Of songs sung but never danced
With our broken dream.
When starlight meets the dust, and
Shadow eats the snow,
All our stories are satin sheer
And all our wants are gone.
We watch the memories march, until
They find a sliver of chrome that showed that place
Where all piano’s live and breathe.
My father in the wishing well,
My mother played trapeze.
My sister never saw the light,
My brother never born.
That was that,
Where stars meet dust
And floorboards sing off key.
Over the course of several months, I carried a small notebook in which I kept random musings and poetic snippets that came to me. This is the compilation of that.