Everyday Poetics

Moral Absurdity

2009-12-16T08:05:00.000-08:00

Paradox

2009-03-04T09:48:00.000-08:00

Your great paradox, your ruiner
Is that push-pull mentality
Which divides you.

I watched you grope for warmth,
Performing sexual acts in exchange for company,
Furious at yourself.

Whereupon, the moment he attempts
To dwell in your heart, softly
Your panicky resolve betrays you.

***

I'm all affectation and no feeling-
Excepting rare glimpses of the ethereal;
Few occasions distress or provoke me.

But scant, see the dangling jewels
Which decorate my primitive body
With timeless modern soul.

Anything to slow down time.
Anything to delay my transition -
A quarter has already passed.

The Loved Unborn

2008-06-24T10:53:00.001-07:00

The frail foetus, slumbering inside,
Eyelids hiding eyeballs like marbles
Like blue balloons like moons
Hanging crazily over the ocean's tide.

The binary brain, sitting inside
A soft and damaged skull like
A much handled beach ball
Falling rapidly into the ocean's tide.

The hidden heart, pumping inside,
A yet-to-be-hard ribcage like
A collection of little knives thrown in
A drawer, like the stones on the floor
Of the ocean's tide.

The dainty digits - the digits! - inside,
The mother's womb, fumbling blind
Like a frightened child covering the sun
With the fingers of one hand,
Resting the other one the sand -
Whose toes stretch and pull back
And let the child walk -
Oh, heart; oh, soul; how it makes me retch -
To think of what was,
Never to be mended,
To think upon what could have been,
If my foetus' life hadn't ended.

The digits will remain,
Forever a symbol of a brief refrain;
They'll remind me of the moonlit touches
And crazy hunches
As we sat through lunches
Thinking "Never the same, if we had a child,
It would never be the same."
As the sea changes with each new tide.

And, departing, my index
Brushes upon yours -
And lingers.
But I never thought I'd lose a child,
Heart, brain, toes and fingers.

2008-06-24T10:51:00.000-07:00

Chance

2008-06-24T10:48:00.000-07:00

I suppose you'd
put it down
to God -
His workings and
Mysterious fashions.
His fathoms, his
turnings.
- And say to
look into pure
brightness
Without protective glasses.

(And I reply: it's
madness)

I suppose I'd
put it down to
chance -
The inner spinning
of an elementary
clog.
The dog-eat-dog
physics, allowing
for Khaos (and
madness)

And you reply:
it's sadness.

Naked

2008-06-24T10:47:00.000-07:00

Afterwards, we lay
"Naked As We Came",
Fine golden lines
Obscuring your view
But making everything
Clear to me.

Annoying Habit

2008-06-24T05:34:00.000-07:00

Spilled Petrol

2008-06-24T05:33:00.000-07:00

Life purges to lead to cathartic misery. Escape.
Fictionalisation from within drains to tears.
There's the fakeness of substance not in
Either a scripted show or one long life.
But short is the story measured in years.

When a finder idly threaded the founder
Whose noose hangs across it, above the
Screamed meekness, at once a corpse in
The moment froze -immobilised rope, in spirit
Or not, the rainbow is the death untimed,
Waiting for repose.

Spilled petrol smelled of fumes
As his body lay up the road
By the farmhouse by the chickens
Thrown there, clumsily, thrown.

A Triolet For You

2008-06-24T05:32:00.000-07:00

The shadowed forms become you,
A thin grey streak of hair.
I lay fresh linen new,
The shadowed forms become you,
I hold them closer-to,
(I thought I saw you there).
The shadowed forms become you,
A thin grey streak of hair.

Wine

2008-02-08T12:22:00.000-08:00

Save reels of time,
Watch them, closely;
Decant the chime
Into a glass of
Wine.
When spilled, or dropped
By age, morosely,
Enchant the drops;
You know it always
Stops.
(In time).

Repose

2008-02-08T12:06:00.000-08:00

Heartbeat seconds while away
And - for the infatuated day -
We live as though minutes
Could be wasted in idleness
Or thrown into the fray.

Fast hours time one heartily
With resolute urgency -
We live with little satisfaction
And wholly scrambled minds.

Fag

2008-02-04T10:44:00.000-08:00

The tar that lingers
(The unfiltered stuff)
At the butt of the fag
Is star-shaped
And, after the last drag,
If you've succumbed to boredom fully,
You can dig out that filter,
And see its browness
And wonder just how much was saved
From the sacs in my lungs?
Are they this brown?

The star of tar surpasses the grotesque
And scales the dizzy heights of the fantastical,
The magical connotations,
If you're bored enough,
You can become lost in it.
But it remains just stuff
To be avoided -
It eludes me,
The prospect of cancer,
But it niggles at my subconscious
All the time I smoke,
During every starry drag,
I think of the loved ones lost
To the musical killer -
The fag.