A rabid ******

with a fix from hell

tumbled into sleep

then death she fell



In her head it was hopeless

her heart a broken harp

arm an open wound

her life tragic art



Poisonous mush was relieving

better than so called love

pin ****** kept her breathing

the past weighed too much



On such a day I feel sorry

she never stood a chance

addiction was the corollary

of the waltz she had to dance

Our secrets locked away
Inside our tiny minds they sway
feeding our hearts with emotion
they swell like the deepest ocean
overcoming our pain, killing our sadness,
freeing our creativity, freeing our soul, freeing...

Ourselves

There's a myth that when you finish
a good book, the author dies for you.
At least, I often feel a sense of loss.
I was near the end of a fine book of essays.
I heard the author was dying, incurable.

Famous mass media man, favoured
by the more selective viewers, journalist,
interviewer, novellist, cultured critic,
humourist, philosopher, a thinker's man.

Ought I to have read that final essay,
defy the myth? Next day I scanned
the papers. His death was not reported.
I trust we both breathed normally again.

In my dream,
I was unlocking
you,
portion by portion.
This door
then the next.

I think I know you.
I think -- I
know you

enough

to know
what passcodes to use.
I key in pins
and scramble letters.

Yet
every time,
a new door,
a new dream.

I don't know
you.

for l.r.
040218