february 2021

                    (i)

...here I am writhing on every corner

a gregarious flagellant

calling forth the storm

drawing blood from trees

my back soaked

by some unrelenting truth

by a language stripped of its skin

the interface watching, demanding

why these sins

why these veins

there is no universe anymore

it’s gone

it never was

for how can there be a name

for a shadow that never happened

yet the waters break over my back

and the data, the trees

are so deep, so mystic

my pain becomes my essence

and through the storm

comes the maker of my blood...

                     (ii)

...I do not trust my face

I see only a motionless subterfuge

signs of perjured souls

landscapes of distant eyes

approaching then retreating

with the moon at the very centre

of this hollow sapience

this very mind not my own

for I have come from nowhere

and I am drowning in ambiguity

in multitudinous gambits

to just stay alive

to juggle this fatuous nonsense

just one more time

rolling in the sand

and rising covered in purple stars

my face spits its lies at the waves

as the incomprehension rages on

pounding the sand

pounding the mind

then at last the moon makes her move and leaves

dragging my soul behind...

                      (iii)

...true art, they say, is to conceal art

to make it flow pure out of the ground

as though whispering to itself

untouched by giants

by these messy aeons that keep reminding us

of the knapping of flints

of the smelting of children

down into bronze thugs

with nothing to do all day

but learn how best to cut

their way into each other's throats

our mercurial, golden children

their shadows of stone

this heritage, this poignant degradation

that can never just go away

this golden art, this shadow art

a path to untouched ground

to those strange places

where water has a way

of talking to itself...

                     (ii)

...I do not trust my face

I see only a motionless subterfuge

signs of perjured souls

landscapes of distant eyes

approaching then retreating

with the moon at the very centre

of this hollow sapience

this very mind not my own

for I have come from nowhere

and I am drowning in ambiguity

in multitudinous gambits

to just stay alive

to juggle this fatuous nonsense

just one more time

rolling in the sand

and rising covered in purple stars

my face spits its lies at the waves

as the incomprehension rages on

pounding the sand

pounding the mind

then at last the moon makes her move and leaves

dragging my soul behind...

                          (iii)

...true art, they say, is to conceal art

to make it flow pure out of the ground

as though whispering to itself

untouch by giants

by these messy aeons that keep reminding us

of the knapping of flints

of the smelting of children

down into bronze thugs

with nothing to do all day

but learn how best to cut

their way into each other’s throats

our mercurial, golden children

their shadows of stone

this heritage, this poignant degradation

that can never just go away

this golden art, this shadow art

a path to untouched ground

to those strange places

where water has a way

of talking to itself...