the morning mist fades
a golden sun revealed
her eyes kept westward
I remember flyingI remember having wings as a child. I had wings so large and so strong that they could lift me off the ground. I remember using them to fly.
I flew wherever and whenever I wished. I flew to the Caribbean to fight a pirate with a blade, to the jungles of the amazon as an explorer's aide, to castles in europe to serve a king, to mountains, to the savanna, to the tropics, to the Sahara and to distant lands unexplainable and adventures unbelievable. Once I even went back in time and tamed a dinosaur immediately before I sailed with Christopher Columbus to America. Okay, okay -- I probably went back in time and tamed a dinosaur a bit more than just once but could you blame me?
I remember no boundaries, no limitations to where my wings could take me. My wings took me anywhere I wanted. I was free.
You're probably thinking I'm kidding or maybe you're probably thinking worse -- that I'm a liar? I mean, it's ridiculous isn't it? Listening to a story about childhood wings sounds absurd isn't it?
The Invention of ArtA man can only remember so much. Just enough to learn from past mistakes. A man can only faintly remember his happiness and joy and, at times can only faintly remember his pain and loneliness.
A man wants to remember. It is a need that he himself does not understand why.
A man once told the day's work into song and then at night drew crude pictures on the wall. A man once wrote his thoughts on papyrus and then expressed through music with his instruments. A man once painted his imagination in canvas right before he announced it in poetry. Then a man mastered light and sound and he took pictures and records instead.
A man chooses his medium, ancient or new, and he uses it to express his thoughts, imaginings and most importantly, the emotions of the present that he knows would instantly become past. A man feared he forget, so he invented art.
Art was invented because a man needed to remember. A copy of one moment of the present that has become past, no matter how crude that copy may be,
Hollow Memory of a Distant ShoreYou are like a long passed season.
As delicate as the footprints of sparrows in freshly fallen snow.
Intricate, yet so easily disturbed when care is not taken.
Somehow, you have managed to persist after all these years.
Residing in the same quiet place you carved into the woods so long ago..
Only a short ride from the sea.
When you cross my mind, you carry with you the scent of that shoreline.
Harsh and thick, yet somehow placating.
Though the weather was perpetually gray, misty, and cold.
Much like your heart had become..
Just before we painfully, and slowly, parted ways.
I recall with deep longing your fascination with foxes.
With the way they would trot up and down the beach in the early morning,
Their coats most often wet and muddy from crossing into the tide.
I could see the subtle enthrallment in your eyes as they dug for clams.
They would thrust their forepaws deep into the muck, throw it backward..
And at times, to my assuagement, you would smile.
Now, it feels more dist
diamonds, bones, and oak spirits(moussaieff)
like a petal,
i fall in spirals to the grounds of the garden,
leaving my sorrows on rosebuds
as i pass by --
hoping to see them crystallize,
hoping to see them grow,
hoping beyond hope that they will shed
tears of their own.
i've bent my bones
like stars reflecting off lake wobegon
or a dragon undergoing psychoanalysis,
so i dream a little dream
of your coffee shop around the corner --
about the silky espresso sunrises
melting my already fragile skeletalia
and transforming me into a career man.
here's the thing:
i don't like driving sports cars,
or trying to fit into limousines,
or drinking pricy champagne
at benefit dinners for people who don't exist;
i don't enjoy this new life
any more than i did the old.
i want more than anything
a good massage therapist
who knows her way around the lumbar,
who could maybe loosen up my
too-tight hold on reality for just
a moment, just long enough for me to
catch my breath and learn how to walk again.
Aphrodite's DissertationThe sound of catamarans upon the foam,
the march of cavalry and weary knights
who lay their bodies down are coming home
to linens drying like a hundred kites;
if not for love, what force are sword and chain
that they may honor empires with their call,
if not for me, they all have died in vain
and made of Troy the laughingstock for all.
Indeed, your chamois shirts and littered socks,
the tender cartilage of tambourines,
unfinished wine, and little jew'llery box,
and dual hemispheres of nectarines
belong to me alone in my design:
the air you breathe, your everything, is mine.
oh my archimedesthere is a mediterranean maelstrom
inside of me, and frankly these demented bones,
are inventing a thousand ways to drown
my soul inward,
the curves of my cartilage are overripe vineyards
for myriads of apprehensions blossoming
age, insipid sand charting the honeysuckling
progression of snapping parabolas
the tempests swat opposing ranks
& I am afraid that I have begun to lose myself
between the roaring of my ears,
torrent in a can,
a soulless man -
and what is a man without a soul
[ I'm lighter than that]
these mythical caverns of what once was my days
are condensing into dripping pages,
I want the books to etch my ru
She sits all alone by the sea
before the empty stretch;
whispered winds wandering through,
without any hope
of a realisation.
The hush of skin on skin,
such submission in her posture
to shimmy past boulders and pebbles alike
into the vast emptiness --
what a wonderful death it is. To drown.
Wooden clunk of boats
rocking against the gentle, rippling tides;
brightly painted sides
and glowing edges
and well-ripened lichen and a lining of barnacles
which soothes the onrushing memories.
Gravel-like hiss of sand on the
sloping route up wooden stairs,
creaky, crumbling boathouse;
faded outlook under grey-blue clouds:
your ship doesn't pass by this place any more.
Maybe that's why these shoes hang,
odd pair as they are,
in these nooses
underneath the water
facing that clear, heavy sky
where we used to walk,
the sun and I.
Heading HomeBitter-boned, I break and crumble to dust
My pockets full of keys to places that no longer exist
An oystershell ashtray full of butts and ashes beside me
Testify to dreams of green hedges and white picket fences
A tapping on the door, a rapping on the wall
Ghosts always like this hour just before dawn
A bird screeches and I wake again to the stinging day
And shufflestep towards home from a thousand worlds away
Evening Poems9 o'clock and
a nightingale song
from a starling winged night
in perfect mimickry.
The moon and her mandrake
baby screech whites,
peel trees to bone. Blacks
The stars meet
at hush- Deaf but eternal
jury. Atlas, stung by
each daughter: a pinhole
truth, still naively serene
after all they've seen: from dove breath
to flame. All
is a curse to the lampbearers.
The moon holds court.
Great judge, her metals bleed
into radiance, cleave twilight to hill.
She bobs socketless
through aether and flame, &
to her gleaming calm
all shadows die. No illusions survive
but reflection, who steeps wood in
moonwhites, petrifying old life into
holds voice at night's throat -
pulls light through sea's veins
and tightens light's rope,
weaving candle across
the skyline to bless
something older than memory,
more tender than breath.
a will o wisp promise
Ocean EyesYour skin would be lace
Between my fingertips,
Tangling with streams
Of golden sunlight that
Button you up,
Leaving intricate patterns
That tell your secrets
With every thread.
You'd breathe like a mermaid,
The scent of the sea echoing
In our veins,
Like teenage hearts
Pumped full of lust.
Like heels on marble floors,
But you're so
You're blood in my lungs
And air in my heart,
But I live only
Off the raindrops
That fall from
Your soft, sea-stone eyes
When a smile curves your lips.
(I carve you in the sand,
But ocean tears
Wash you away.)
Stockholm SyndromeThis morning tastes dry and dusty and alive and
the Australian sun is already pouring
on to my back, a thousand lashes for your crimes
I run, and run, and run, and the hot sand
burns my soft bare feet, shaping calluses
on my Scottish soles. My knees have dirt on
them. Every rushing breath from my lungs
sings of love.
This is not my country, and it never will be, no
matter how many fistfuls of red sand I grab and sift
through my dirty-nailed fingers, no matter how many
thorny little plants I tear up and press to the winter-white
bone-ridged skin of my chest.
The sand will slip away, the thorns will rip wincing-red
holes in me and I'll love them still.
I am an invader, a daughter of criminals sent from a gentle
rain-damp country far away. This land has got its revenge,
this land has captured the witless intruder and holds her tight.
I crane my pale, freckled neck.
I kiss the eucalyptus branches that dig into the soft
rose-blush of my cheek.
I dig my toes into the dirt.
I let myself
this little thing called a manalas, i sit
atop alabaster wisps
of nimbus & cumuli,
bidding farewell to
dancing towards dawn,
& draining into
puddles of cerulean
& i can hear them,
the altos rising from
& fields of porcelain luster,
where not even the promise
of earnest attempts
can cloak the ambience
i'll dine with kings,
but already i've grown hungry
for the vintage
Make Me Mistress of Lies and Goddess of ChaosMy brightly burning ice giant; god of fire,
My silver tongued lie-smith with weighted whispers—
Will you still love me on Ragnarök's byre?
When your children wage war on their elders?
For the nine realms will be nothing but chaos,
And each will sit back to watch the destruction
For none shall be able to forestall this loss,
Or find another world to which they can run.
If you say yes; that you will adore me yet…
Should I trust those lips which kiss me sweetly?
That weave such beautiful tricks, traps and nets
To trip and catch the Æsir and their army.
Tell me, if it should be my breath leaves first,
Should you take another into our bed?
Or should you deem this world to be accursed,
And wait for the fates to cut immortal thread.
cannibalistic cityit will eat your brain first.
you will wait for your coffee in orderly queues.
you will smile at the fake blonde receptionist at the orthodontist.
you will talk to your neighbor about the serious problem the management has with the cat infestation problem and you will agree to write a bitchy letter if something isn't done soon.
then, it will take your limbs.
your arms and legs will disintegrate into a melange of taxis and buses and metros
and your bike tires will go flat and you won't even notice.
your arms and legs will become so weak that you won't be able to hold yourself up anymore.
it will devour your eyes.
it will suck all the colour out of your retinas and leave technicolour dribbles and not give a shit.
it will lick the creative genius who resides behind your eyeballs dry and spit him out on to the pavement to beg for attention.
it will swallow your tongue.
your sharp-edged blade you used to wield will be blunt and your teeth will become a tripwire.
you will forget how to say w
Four SinnersSt Peter rapped smartly on the door to the chambers of the Lord, before pushing them open to see the homely white room beyond. The Lord stood up from his seat at the desk and welcomed the saint with open arms, a loving smile on his lips.
“Peter,” he said, his voice soft and deep, like a father’s to a toddler, “how is it I may help you today?”
“My Lord, I know it is unorthodox, but a group of murderers have requested your presence at their judging.” Peter replied, “Each claims to have an injury which excuses their sins.”
The Lord considered this, then nodded solemnly, walking slowly out of the room. His steps were heavy, his stance reflecting his sadness at the necessity of their punishments.
Outside the gates’ white swirls, four men knelt, heads bent. The Devil loitered casually off to one side, his dark robes emanating fear that swirled around him. He and the Lord embraced, as over the millennia their mission has become one a
DysphoriaWe were prodigies of insecurity and
clashing ivory skin on ivory
love, love, love
(the syllables are strung upon your bedpost
like wringing hands and tripwires)
I'm synesthetic red and aching
with envy for your wretchedness and
I would be hard pressed to find you anything but blinding.