A tingling tongue
A head in the clouds
A solid stream once overflowing
now silently rests โ dry as salt
Too weary to weep for worlds lost
Too lost to find their final words,
Too deep the well without reflection
Too real the reflecting of idle ways
A head in the clouds
A tingling tongue
Licking every lasting wound
And bitter pills to follow.
Vintage Carpets
Words, like creaking stairs I slowly climb
Only to stumble and tumble, and fall โ only
To break every bone; ink scatters and splatters
Across vintage carpet floors: rustic red vinyl
Hides my fallen cause. Head first, my descent
Towards a life of broken pens โ I dare not wish
For a better ending.
Compassion: a leaky bucket
carried across dusty plains
scorched earths and deserts,
leaving desiccated wells
in its wake; crumbs lefts to bake
a tart dry as bones โ
no remorse, no real home.
Bucket: an untamed unicorn
trotting across the unloved plains
through the tingling truths
of white flour hands, crumbs of life
โ left behind.
Soliloquy in D-Minor
Oh, this setting sun of darkness,
words once belonging now rest
in silence; words once hovering
now wingless โ scorned
like scorched earth at nighttime:
no shadows form from words
fallen flat; sinking
sinking
with every revolution the pen sharpens
only to break
the mind of the sharpener.
Oh, the gravitas of light.
The gravity of darkness.
In Voces Intimae I seek the snare,
and the rising sun
of virtue.
Our Father - A Supposition
I suppose
You hold in high esteem
The man who were by all reports
Our father.
I suppose
You find a happiness
Between the sheets of merry men
Like wenches.
I suppose
You see in me the thief
That felled the tree by force
Or mourning.
I suppose
You lost your numbered dream
The one which where by all accounts
Your final.
I suppose
You died by sword of pride
The man who were by all reports
Our father.
Every smile was a lie, missing
like our old awning
after the winter storm,
every otherwise
you left to rot;
every yawning
a rat
echoing your old blue dog
barking,
& our sunset
in spring
unshaded.
You left none
as you left, the weary wind
took all things,
every otherwise
with a smile
still missing.
I am but
a shooting star,
an algorithmic approximation
of Tumblrโs twisted circuitry.
I am but
a discarded face,
the wrinkled remnants
of Dr Daniel Westin.
I am but
the Blackbird,
racing across the solemn sky
of lost recognition.
I am but
traces,
a dust-drop dancing
the friendless tango of one.
I am but
the clap of one hand,
a mere monologue on saline seas
a muted unsavoury meal.
I am but
footsteps,
in sinking sand
the lingering sound of carrions.
I am but
a sconce,
slowly snuffed.
Attempting to escape the passions I kiss the white lips of Mother Moon, she trembles and turns towards the opposite, and I โฆ I pray โฆ my hands pray a silent prayer โฆ that beyond, yonder, a distant land will help, that there is help, yonder: help โ help me โ helpโฆ
I whisper her name, her pain my gain, I summon her again as I feel her pale pain transcend โฆ the canyon, our canyon of dreams and dents, where
I am.
She is.
We are
unable to escape our passions; the last in line greet us but as we dance our final dance
between the now and the then we find neither room for the last nor the present selves embraced, unreflective of life and lives โ unconsummated.
