january 2018


...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...




...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...





...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...