Poem: Writing Into Darkness


Music, baroque, I hear the notes

Tie themselves into lucid knots –

Labyrinths of spectacle, ravelling all things

In sequential spirals – I am

Not tied in – but enchained –

Where others dance and court,

 I am only Inwoven in ever

Denser layers of suffocating self – my

Petals too populous – my thorns, frothing

Foaming – orgiastic brambles, celebrating,

Denigrating riotousness


I dance alone.

I sing alone.


My notes have nothing to harmonize with

Except themselves; what I sung before being

Destroyed, effaced, by what I sing next – arrows

Fired after arrows – notes attacking notes – melodies

Savaging melodies as combatant serpents, rattling and

Shaking in metamorphosis of self-murder


I sit in the abyss, and my scroll keeps on purling,

Tapering into darkness.

There is nothing here except:

My Quill,

My Ink,

My Scroll,

And the Words I write


The Scroll is made from skin – my Skin;

The Ink is dredged up from the unfinishable

Darkness where I lagoon. The

Words are just passengers – faery-like thoughts –

Phantasms that pass through my mind like sightseers

At theme parks – what spectacle is

Today unfurling in The Land of Poet? Is the Ferris

Wheel still up and running? Or must we go elsewhere

To be nauseated by circularity?


So, I carry on writing into darkness.

I don’t know if anyone will ever receive

These messages. I don’t know if there is

Anything beyond this darkness.


How many different kinds of darkness are there?

How many gods are there in The Pantheon of Night?

Is Light just another form of Darkness?

Is a light-bulb just an immature form of Darkness

That has not yet learned to conceal itself?



I learned to conceal myself long ago.

When the day is done, and the shifting tides

Of Darkness shimmer around themselves, I roll

Myself up in my Scroll, and sleep.


And, as I sleep, I dream – I dream of light –

I dream of Darkness no longer being afraid

To show itself – I dream of no longer Dancing



I dream of landscapes, of friendships, of cities,

Of pullulating possibilities – that the knots of

Infinity are no longer just chains, encumbrances,

But beautiful pieces of embroidery in which I am

A purposeful, important stitch.



Then I awake.

Nothing has changed.


I furl out my Scroll,

Dip my Quill into Darkness,

And hope, against the face of

All possible alternatives, that, maybe

One day, someone will finally be able

To read my handwriting.


Then the Darkness will be Loved.

And I will not dance alone.



Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s