In nature, as in civilised homes, there is evidence of conformity
      That only significant study would make apparent,
      but his studies were suspicious and neighbours would talk

The nose is bleeding and his pretty song is skipping
on the jukebox by the bathroom door
Anhedonia now is constant, the pathos inherent
As their mother went missing years ago
While they read Proust by the window,
and the day was drawing closed
Their father was sick with Absinthe shakes
whilst little duck starved in the pond behind the house

On disagreeable days,
profound introspection
becomes not more than
subversive ******-babble
and the words he speaks
are dust on the tongue
a bother and little more

Purported to be perpetually depressed, his cool demeanor left an impression
on his sister, as she would gaze upwards at his face, displaying world-weariness
So Weltschmerz they called him and his cool was palpable
but only her smile could bring colour to his fa-

Black flags hoisted high in some wild parade
Occupied residences, the terrified children cry
Under militant control now, Fallujah mourns
There's no time for petty metaphorical advance
Sludge tracks are worn, boots muddied, bloodied
It's a strange agreement to use their houses
for this, the extroverted violence of a dark regime
The Sunnis' purge, spurned; new conflict arises
In Ramadi they cry too, it's cyclical, this eternal war

When will Iraq see absolution
and it's people get to sleep at night?

It is hard to write in pictures, when you appear in sounds
How the damask light seeps through awning head space
When halcyon winter days end in minutes,
and you disappear everyday, without fail
Is it cruel that death and love are so mutually aligned
or is it bitter contempt of love that makes it appear so
Could you love me in death as I loved you in life
and is it on that pretense that your only answer is no?

Some faded curtain sways in a phantom breeze
      and air swells in the old duct behind the bed
Cowboy Junkies play
        Salted meat stench, tobacco and zest linger
The misted road on the outside
                                                     refracts moonlight through a crack

it's all too disjointed
but also clear, all so clear

The cliched call from anonymous houses, screaming; drunken screaming
                                  I  t  '  s     F  r  i  d  a  y     n  i  g  h  t
You're invited

The notion enters in eerie silences
                                                        ­and wood-frames creak
and the curtains still dance
       and green leaves look black in that middle point between the lamp posts
              and a stray car buzzes along a sultry surface; it is the moth, brazen in search of light
                                                           ­                                                                 ­                                  
and who are we, if not moths in search of light?                                                           ­                    
                                            ­                                                                 ­                                                  
              ­                                                                 ­                             Can you hear that ocean swell
                                                           ­                                                     or do you roar in unison too
                                                             ­                                        Would you change as the weather
                                                         ­                                                            and embrace everything
                                                      ­                                                                 ­                     everybody
                                  ­                                                                 ­                  and life
                                                            ­                                                              
                                                                ­            to reach transcendence

The jukebox plays that old time swing
What a wild sound, a jumping fling
I've got it bad today, a fever for you
Think of us, when I'm feeling blue
Sinatra say that having it bad,
Well it ain't good and I'm so glad

So when I'm down and out, I'll turn you on
That old timey jazz, for me it's the only one

Art Tatum I'll turn you up loud
Swanky Szabo, amasses a crowd
Slim Gaillard, that crazy sound
Teagarden's trombone all around
Mingus and Ayler, Rollins and Miles
Dalindeo and Niechęć all those styles

I'll dance the moonlight serenade
and these hepcats, will never fade
Dry up daddy-o and focus on sanity
Sonny still struttin' with such vanity
Wayne Shorter quartet on a starry night
Jazz has me goofy but feeling alright

I've been feeling grummy for far too long
Remedied with an old Billie Holiday song

It was social experimentation
To be locked away, windowless
Four walls, perpetually fixed
- as his figure in a lightless room
Ears removed, mouth sewn closed
Eyes blinded, no light, no sound
Muted humanity, no dignity

He happened upon a laughing child
before the procedure
and that sound echoed inside
Deep within his bowels it reverberated
Through his blood
Distorted in his stomach
Youthful innocent laugh,
it grew monstrous
It began to talk
and the beast within was personified

Day one he lost his mind
Day two was still day one
(how irresponsive time becomes)
Day three the laugh became a growl
Day four the voices started
Day five in absentia
Day six he was done
Day seven, bizarre interim
- that between life and death

Profoundly lost in swingin' psychosis
Met by the devil in detailed cerebellum
Watched memories deteriorate
like some reel-to-reel burning, spluttering
His wife now only a hydrogen hallucination

Do you, the reader, know true loneliness?

The observation deck was packed on day eight
Muted, yet guttural screams of anguish
from deep within his throat
Were haunting reminders of the damaging effect
of psychological studies and the fragility of humanity

The cataract voids in his stoic face
they betrayed fear, and begged captors
for some respite from this hellish dream

Until in a tormented blinded haze, the voice was clear
His ears still dead, though this voice was true
Spoke but three subtle words
The subject experienced simultaneous neurological
Joy and fear
He had heard the de facto vocalisation of some supreme

he spoke them aloud
his only utterance

and the teary eyed scientists gathered
sterile needle
no words
dead.