I cannot have a song in my throat
without the hour of my silence
smoldering in the ramparts of my thunder blush
where the seamless coil of my mortality
aches like a beacon on a cliff
of Nothing Else.

I cannot change my little Bibles
for a little Bliss.
I can only exchange the vapors
of my longing
for a non-touch
at the heart
of a wrong.

September is as brisk as a Discoteque
in a neon cadaver.
with all the palaver of a garden gnome -
full of further promises.
a prominent departure
where everything eminent
is Gospel.

I have pools of Time in my dislodged serenity
and all the ghosts to haunt me as lightly
as a gale.
I have come from an open wound
that has no closing argument.
Only the infinite armament of hollow guns
for solid snakes and
horizons made
of Nonsuch.

Before Begun
I had no Always
as much
as having
none.