Viscous to liquid, now dissipating
colours fading from the imposing painting
of the future now no longer
still in progress.
No more changes, no new creations
only the repetition of all that
always leaves you back where you began, &
if the colours begin to brighten again
as always they have
when the flames flare & the embers turn
to a fire fierce & dangerous,
the painting will be beautiful again;
you will change…
The first step to freedom is to change the way you dream,
to escape the constraints of the time &
into which you were thrown when first your throat
released that scream;
entry into the ancient litany
of despair that is our shared language.
If the dreams will not cede,
if they will not submit,
when the knife punctures the skin &
down into the flesh,
something is released; not just the blood but
an obscene surplus; the pleasure of pain
gained by virtue of vice
& the sight of the red river flow:
take this as a joyous gift,
or as penitence for real or
it is nothing more than violence
that cannot speak;
it is nothing more than
a voice too weak
“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden
The wish to kiss your eyelids &
that heavy weight of images
forever haunting you.
You’re no Princess & I’m
I cannot rescue you &
you can’t rescue me.
I still so madly want to believe
“I am with you / and know how it is”*.
I know nothing of your suffering,
that yours leaves scars & so do mine.
I’ve nothing left to write about, except
that will not leave me:
a Guillotine quick & clean,
in the most golden
morning light we’ve ever seen in our lives,
leaving only beauty behind,
the beauty of suffering.
Until all that remains are the memories
that help you to
All Gods die a quiet death.
Only silence survives when nothing is left.
In the struggle of existence,
even the winners have to lose.
The odds are always against us,
no matter which side of the line we choose.
Martyrs mistake dreams for pretence,
but nothing exists that makes any sense:
Just pretty pictures to paint over & protect.
The frayed remains of two daydream decades
listlessly slides glass beads across
are so delicate that they break
& the shards are lost to the permanence of
the day walks away toward the West as
each sunset colour elides the other,
a blue creeping twilight
& shrouded moon
a widower leaves flowers
at the grave of a secret lover.
Ignorant of all but their game,
the frayed remains
see nothing but the broken glass,
in a present moment
empty of all content:
with hollow bones.