like a fish out of water
walking backwards upstream
grand illusion of compliance
buying nothing sight unseen

respecting their essence
detached from their path
connected in spirit
repelled by all wrath

norms without ethics
morality sans love
passion ever searching
a need to rise above

heart sinking hatred
mind numbing neglect
mountain moving greed
rarely circumspect

not infrequently i ponder
how my being was unfurled
wondering deeply in my soul
if i belong to another world

I have been reset by the whistle-moans
of distant deities. They summoned me
with hot, budding secrets
in earthy cases like mushroom dust.

Then, my lullaby death under lunar stage-light;
I retreated into the detailed finery
of the open boarded stage.

I was left a sombre vault of knowledge.
A soul deposited. An I shed of an I.

Grounded, I glide; an effortless waltz.
The grand illusion taking flight at last –
There is no me, but a simple interwoven thread
in all this fabric.

A whistle-tone as I danced my last --
but no listener, and nobody produced it.

I wrote

'the waves adorned your feet
in silent hushes'.

I wrote and I never
said. When you needed it,
when you cried for it,
I never said. I wrote.

In your loft,
our joint belongings
swelled my throat
and I didn't say.

But I saw you looking.

Your feet descended first -
from the attic, from the attic,
your feet looked the same.

I couldn't say,
So I wrote this.

I will give you bruises on your body made of pleasure, not of pain.

With nothing but the stars to guide us on our empty ways.

We have been running through the woods like animals we truly are.

In the moon light I am tracing your violet skin that I marred.

I look above to heaven
As we lie here in the field
Sun shining down on us
I breathe it in and "feel"

I feel the love I want
And know the love I need
You to me are both of those
And you are all I need

An odor has remained among the sugarcane:
a mixture of blood and body, a penetrating
petal that brings nausea.
Between the coconut palms the graves are full
of ruined bones, of speechless death-rattles.
The delicate dictator is talking
with top hats, gold braid, and collars.
The tiny palace gleams like a watch
and the rapid laughs with gloves on
cross the corridors at times
and join the dead voices
and the blue mouths freshly buried.
The weeping cannot be seen, like a plant
whose seeds fall endlessly on the earth,
whose large blind leaves grow even without light.
Hatred has grown scale on scale,
blow on blow, in the ghastly water of the swamp,
with a snout full of ooze and silence

No matter how loud I scream
It's not loud enough
No matter how high I raise the volume
It's not high enough
I crave to tune out everything around me
But something stops me
It's not enough
*It's not enough