january 2018
(i)
...where are those devious, ironic hearts
the icon bearers, the ones who traded in insincerity
who once ran headlong through the streets
screaming at stones
at the confusion of love, of fate, of anger
did they just buckle at history’s knife-point
or were they too seduced by their own children
worn down into ruthless clichés
where has that compulsive, feral madness gone
that once faithfully promised to out-wit
the insanity of habits, norms, decisions
that even now still fill our mouths with blood
with primates praying for oblivion
with dogs vomiting dogs
because there is, it seems, no limit
to what our mouths can hold
even the cries of those who traded in fate
who knew just how ruthless history would be
and how compelling and sincere it is
to detect a pulse in stones...
(ii)
...a thin slice of grey cloud slides beneath my feet
and the ocean glistens
thousands of miles below my soul
blue and dark and silver
a beckoning, magic placenta of unimaginable strength
forcing slime into curses
into sonnets that seize every fragment of every vision
keys thrown and left
beside a glass of wine
the diary of a man in despair
an ultimatum pressing my vulva
green cicadas crawling from my ears
trees dancing to music
and the clouds gliding, always gliding through my eyes
what then is this threshold
this exit, this trial, this invasion
that masquerades as the sweetest of all wisdom
yes sonnets beckon, yes visions fragment
and yes the ocean shines
but why is this intransigence never enough...
(iii)
...you say it’s gracious, jagged, indecent
you say there is no sense, no altitude, no illumination
that each phrase is an atrocity
a desperate plea to the righteous totality of life
then you say every thought is an act of darkness
and that every darkness is an act of thought
the true thirst, therefore, is for obscurity
the statue within, the image beyond
even love, you say, begets only chaos
a deep confusion of emotions
which, you claim, barely holds back the homicidal universe
far better, I suppose, to rap your way to riches
than face the certainty of drowning in your own nothingness
but who are you, you man of needles
you saline, amphetamine gossip
poetry is the essence of all death
it is the totality of all darkness
an atrocity rich in desperation, love and rage
but today, today the universe leans forward
and softly strokes and pats my cheek
but what this predatory affection might mean
brings no trust to my heart...