october 2018

                               (i)

...just how close are these images of make-believe

to some true, irresistible barbarism

to the chicanery of whose blood is whose

of instincts that flow from screens

the algorithms for rebirth and transfiguration

even the passwords for raw addiction

and yet, how close, how incredibly close it is

this passive ferocity that is boredom

where the avatar for death is finally conquered

and the augmented sunlight casts no shadows

from those flat, miserable primates 

left gaming their way into hell

murder, they insist

is the irresistible essence of our humanity

the howl of the inner steppenwolf

the leitmotiv of a species

dragging its conscience through the scented grass

a transfiguration of flesh into make-believe

a renaissance without passwords

death’s new avatar...

                         (ii)

 ...and so, what about these menstruating sirens

outside in the obscene darkness

scratching at the air

panting insults into my face

you, you fake, destitute bastard

if your path is poetry, what then is your goal

speak, if you can, or go your way

learn first to die

and then how to flourish in silence

for the taste of our blood is the taste of inspiration

our bleeds are the beginning of language

sonnets detaching from the uterus

so speak up, if you can, if you dare

or go your way

outside the dark rain dives at the ground

and the rivers roar their approval

the earth has been wounded

stabbed by existence

and with every word I try to speak

my mouth fills with the sirens' blood...

                     (iii)

...let there be no doubt, what I crave most

is total war, total enigmatic severity

a universe of incomprehension

that deliberately swells beyond itself

the magnitude of its sins

a war of vicious complexity

a talent so severe it can lean out

and finger-tip-touch

the dissembling schmalz

on the autocrat’s lips

ultimate beauty, however, must become

the means to stun our ignorance

but only if we learn to relish first

the harsh symmetry of the unknown

this insult, this sin

this idiosyncratic war

that changes nothing and no-one

in the way rain, for example

can trickle down a statue’s face

and yet leave the universe untouched...