a dragonfly settles slow on languid-fingertips..
can they smell my heart melting?
there’s a super-cracking inside this geyser
soon to crack some more


1.
I hold a tree inside my palm
you can’t actually tell where its roots really grow
veins don’t fade easily.. just the eye won’t see it

blackest bull-dogue waits behind the silverfish-caravan
who the heck knows why it waits in saliva’d-chains
but it lurks there, in silent-rancour

one eye flicks inwards and gets inverted
licks at all the flies inside
there’s a buzzing to be *felt from miles away

touch-tone insignia keeps calling and calling
screaming off its ugly provided-head
demanding eye-scales which cannot fall

black-stockinged nuns profess utter-diligence to duty
hide their want within the deep-wells of darker-veils
while rosaries are fever-fingered with reverence

keep swinging that twig under my scissored-wishes
you may just miss once
and catch my whirring 'copter-feet


2.
man, if you jump high enough and not fade.. away
you may never have to feel that wicked-thud of landing
one click onto the nebulae and you’re truly home

at the young boy’s feet, they lie
a host of little beings.. not breathing
that jokers cannot understand

as sang in epic-tunes of yore
better to burn out than rust
stay forever young..


reach out with seeker-arms in pin-striped shirt
yes, push mercy down upon its sweet-cheek
and sense the reek of discontent in neat patterns.. waiting to fall
no use looking at poverty crying for a way out as blood runs down its head
tell yourself it’s only paint.. meant for a well-researched lesson on another day


pick up your chair, poet.. and ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuunnnn!!
while feathers fall onto the heads of sinners who sack the fading light


and mind you don’t trip on your way out
your head..




aches





S T – 4 nov 13

Consciousness...
A stream fed by melting snow
from a mountain standing alone.

A lonely mountain all alone
left to fend for himself by his
parents, the plates and oceans.

The stream enters the ocean
and there is lost. Lost to
the waves and salt and tide.

Salty waves batter and battle
conquer and fight only ever
winning against the land.

The land's cliffs defend but
no ground is taken only lost
to the sea and its onslaught.

An onslaught into the mind
of a thinker, a dreamer, a writer
a writer's consciousness.

Morning light obscured by the frosted memories;
time carries no sympathy for the remorse of
seconds traveling within my shivering hands.

I dream of sleep.

Attempting to free my mind of thoughts
by staring at the sunless horizon. Taunted
by cliches; these menageries clouding
the moment.

I long for sustenance.

The refrigerator is full of food
yet, I am starving to death. Night
comes quickly, my body huddled in
fear of being alone.

I laugh.

This season will inevitably change
so I wait, patiently, for the next.