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Literature Text
We must have walked a hundred miles
between beach and marsh that spring;
chipped flint and sea glass, piles of oysters
on scarred tables, spread with yesterday's news.
A broken screen door to the sea, the postulate;
an imprecise geometry that haunts the ruin.
between beach and marsh that spring;
chipped flint and sea glass, piles of oysters
on scarred tables, spread with yesterday's news.
A broken screen door to the sea, the postulate;
an imprecise geometry that haunts the ruin.
Literature
canapes
canapés
people devour
all-you-can-eat buffets
undeterred by the grease
and excesses and after the binge,
they stick a toothbrush
down their throats.
note to self:
emotions are just as fattening.
at the rate we are going,
i fear you will tire of me.
so please love me in bite sizes,
in portions to sustain us
through birthdays and christmases
and in servings
where you savour me
the way i savour you.
© 01.November.2013 :house:
Literature
pentadactylism
you realize
and in so doing
something breaks.
every minute
you deign to make
some unknighted landfall
in a mime
of an irreversible
act;
all this time
wasted
going someplace.
when we’ve gathered up the last
of roadworthy flowers,
touched our final
sundance
in the skull
then
we’ll settle
on leaving . . .
or,
you’ll say
we’re still together
hungering in underboards
dog-fed on blood slivers, whiplash and improvidence.
why
do we pick at moments
to unlock their gnashing
guerrilla war?
i have no reason for what i want
just . . . be my collaborateur
my psalmist
my letterhead
be everything that is outl
Literature
news
hours no longer whittle into days
strangled and uncalendared;
forbidden rituals of a new dark Eros
clothesline sheets and bed throes → blunders in a blue face
collapse
and sensing your reversals, i’ve grown and grown impossibly old;
god’s bad math:
infinities as remainders.
however they lapse
i spend the better part of them
burning through the flyleaves
for mandalas sealed in hell bank
notes
for ashes of your epilogue
for the end of throats
in songs and news.
no one can regret their past
but of futures . . .
like when planets will re-purpose you
into interstellar fruit bats or thyme pulle
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The Camel Saloon, Feb 7, 2012
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slightly mysterious and lush in textures 