thoughts like "that great sea...that... still howls on for more."
I do not know what drove
her away - the sharp jabbing paw,
ceaseless violence hidden
behind large eyes and fur -
looked fondly on siblings.
we ought to have learnt
from the Greeks, that sooner
later, they would have eaten their
children; only she
would not wait. Could not
wait, perhaps - clawing at the blind horizon
beyond better, surely, than
sleeplessness, starvation, sex
of the unspeakable sort.
bereft, Mars waits by the gate in
bib ridiculous, sans balls, sans teeth,
believing, that swift footed Aphrodite’s
new life has suffered no loss.
Most of all, perhaps, we need intimate knowledge of the past. Not that the past has any magic about it, but because we cannot study the future, and yet need something to set against the present, to remind us that the basic assumptions have been quite different in different periods and that much which seems certain to the uneducated is merely temporary fashion.
A man who has lived in many places is not likely to be deceived by the local errors of his native village; the scholar has lived in many times and is therefore in some degree immune from the great cataract of nonsense that pours from the press and the microphone of his own age.
grey muted vowels
sung over a blank face; thin
painted lips pressed carefully shut
to hide the lighted pearl within.
her mother inconsolable
grief of the deepest kind; undone
while her children stare out into the night
sky, the stars making space for yet another one.
fat wet tears fall upon
the dog; startled, it jumps
and paws at the various silent feet, all sad
a sea of toes that tells it to go or come.
drink packets squeeze out their long sweet
sighs, as they sweat sweet tears in this dark;
brought up to salty lips, they nourish the senseless
the only common thing left, is that breathless silence.
Setting fire to our insides for fun
If you’re still alive
You are the lucky one
Therefore the modern man in revolt has become practically useless for all purposes of revolt. By rebelling against everything he has lost his right to rebel against anything… There is a thought that stops thought. That is the only thought that ought to be stopped.
I thought that
You had made a heart
out of pebbles
But gently you made me see
How they were holes
Out with your ski pole.
Spaces to host
Those corrosive type things
That would melt mountains
Leaving us both together, standing
Clutching our bellies, mouths
open, in a gooey sweet puddle
As our ice age warms away.
Philemon hangs the suit
upon the rack -
its foreign threads pricking his screaming
skin, his cold wife cast
off in a corner, where
no forgiveness can touch.
He watches that grey wool sway, mock
truth, such strange and bitter fruit
that tastes like black cotton
stuffed in his mouth. He cannot
weep - dry
clean only. That suit is cheap;
hastily sewn, for summer days
where sweat and soiling mingle
sighs that damn and dishevel
Now she cries, but Philemon cannot
hear, she is far, far away.
He is dying to rip that lapel
and make love to it,
finger that lingering pleasure -
the stuff that gets torn and can’t ever be mended back together.
The unforced rhythms of grace.
You tilt your head
Like a puppy discovering
Its tail -
Gaze fixed but unseeing
Feeling its way in
The dark -
The huge leaves we left out
Waxy and wet in
Their secret longing -
Rain pelting as
You gasp, like an
Animal, drowning -
Our silence fills our eyes
Speaking only in sighs
Unuttered singing -
Tell me that you have two hearts -
Like the bird who returns daily to his nest
At sunset dreaming of the cedar at noon.
Say that you have four eyes -
Two of which only have sight for the sighs
That pass between our parched lips in the rare moment of feeling.
Declare that there are two truths -
The one from our youth and
The other of our making.
But show me only one you -
In devastating completeness
Though it might kill me,
Though it must kill you.
The catastrophe of choice
The imaginary, is neither unreal nor real.