For S

Somethings are better left unsaid
& in the end
does it really matter anyway?

No word can affirm or negate
the warm weight of your face
against my chest,
or the soft pressure
of your body beside me
as we slowly blend & then deliquesce;
relinquish speech
& fall asleep…

contentment so sweet & foreign to me
that a tremulous urge to speak
begins to stir within,
but then I remember again:

Some things
are better left unsaid.

Tonight we sleep beside eachother
& nothing else matters.

Thanatos & Eros

There is something inside all of us,
Freud called it the Death drive
beacause sometimes theory
has to be expressed
as poetry:

Thanatos & Eros.

Testosterone belongs to Thanatos:
the death-drive’s in my cock;
why else a ‘little-death’
after every fuck?

But oestrogen is not Eros:
love & passion belong to nothing;
why else are they
so hard to find?

Mourning & Modern Knowledge

Permutations of motion though matter;
the ecstatic union of void & fire;
    mutation arrayed
        in differential display:

                                is this
use of language the only way
for the feeling to fade
        & finally escape
from my bones?

Can't I ever
go beyond what is here in front of me
& reach the place
        I want to be?


Escaping the maze
is not an option,
so I remain trapped
in oxymoronic structures;
the point
where concept concedes to content;
    when precision
                  & all measurement
reach their limitation,
but grammar still remains needed
for practical reasons.

Without language there is
no way to express
this sense
of frustration & unease
        echoing through me,
as I witness
                unbounded expansions
ripple & sway
when thrown stones

disturb the surface of a lake,
    in brief undulations,
        & sink
until they can be seen
no longer:

nothing ever
disappears completely…

but you're too far away
for me to care.

Even if absences linger within
                every presence,
there's nothing comforting
in that knowledge:

what remains of the lost
is not enough.