A painting or a stain

Viscous to liquid, now dissipating

                                                         into nothing;

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

                                 eventually;

when the flames flare & the embers turn

to a fire fierce & dangerous,

 

perhaps

the painting will be beautiful again;

 

                            perhaps

you will change…

Red Rivers

The first step to freedom is to change the way you dream,

to escape the constraints of the time &

space

into which you were thrown when first your throat

released that scream;

your first

entry into the ancient litany

of despair that is our shared language.

 

If the dreams will not cede,

if they will not submit,

then

 

when the knife punctures the skin &

sinks

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:

 

don’t

take this as a joyous gift,

or as penitence for real or

imagined sins:

 

it is nothing more than violence

that cannot speak;

 

it is nothing more than

a voice too weak

to speak.

Persevere

“…poetry makes nothing happen: it survives” -W.H. Auden

For J

The wish to kiss your eyelids &
                                lift
that heavy weight of images
living beneath,
                forever haunting you.

You’re no Princess & I’m
                        no Knight:

I cannot rescue you &
                    you can’t rescue me.

Yet,

    I still so madly want to believe
“I am with you / and know how it is”*.

I know nothing of your suffering,
                                only
that yours leaves scars & so do mine.

I’ve nothing left to write about, except
                                the dream
that will not leave me:

a Guillotine quick & clean,
the blade
         glistening
in the most golden
morning light we’ve ever seen in our lives,
leaving only beauty behind,
                            even
the beauty of suffering.

Until all that remains are the memories
that help you to

perservere.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

All Gods Die a Quiet Death

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.

Acedia

The frayed remains of two daydream decades
listlessly slides glass beads across
an abacus
            one
                    by
                        one,

            some
are so delicate that they break
upon contact
& the shards are lost to the permanence of
            forgetting:

the day walks away toward the West as
each sunset colour elides the other,
            leaving behind
a blue creeping twilight
            & shrouded moon

like
        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,

trapped

in a present moment
       empty of all content:

a skeleton
 
with hollow bones.