Poem: The Triumph of Failure

rooftops

Starting as the space between the strings,
A silent duet above the street tops,
Words and melodies trickled from lips,
Hearts-hiccoughing from grace-frayed gifts,

But then I became repulsive to you,
All my songs the stuff of maggots,
And now you only saw carbuncles
Whenever you looked into my eyes

“You can sing from a place of fire,
Ushering lyrics into The House of Beauty,
Lift the fallen out of the mire,
Find sweetness in the tears of cruelty

“But can you sing me a house?
Write a symphony of social security?
You’re a worthless, rhapsodizing louse
Venom in the mouth of domesticity”

And, as troubadour, I must triumph in failure,
Submit to the solitude of starved desire,
Search vainly in despondent valour,
For the pain sure to inspire

Unearthed pain unlocks the treasure,
Fresh blood mingles in the fountain,
Divorce from love gives me leisure
To make hell into a mountain

Purgatory, overflowing, has no gates;
A journey across the desert awaits

 

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Poem: The Falconer

falcon.jpg

Invisible women stride through sunshine,
Dappled marionettes of ulterior intent,
Only outlined by where they are not,
The abjection of the feminine,
The passage of the Gods

Feeling everything in the pinpoint of a paintbrush,
The luscious electrode of needled reality,
Everything a molecule of infinite power,
There is a silent explosion,
In the heart of every flower

Always holding back,
A hawk between two worlds,
The surface of dimensions perched on my beak,
The grip of the cosmos in the tines of my talons

Then I’ll return to my falconer,
The answer in the questioner,
With my kill gleaming luscious
On the threnody of my lips

If Atlas shrugs,
Then Gaia thrusts,
All pivoting on her hips

 

Poem: Feral Moans

ecoseuxal

I can taste you,
Taste you like a tiger can taste the pheromones,
The moist-mouthed possibilities of its mate,
A million miles across the jungle

You have no stripes,
Only tattoos of flesh,
The fur of unshaven legs,
Of the mount of Venus,
Cradled like a secret between your thighs

But a secret never put out so many feelers,
Crawling into your hungry earth,
The womb of millipedes and scented death

I can taste it in your breath,
Thick pants of fire, inferno-lunged,
The danger of sex,
Of mutually-assured seduction,
The G-force of a lunging lioness,
Gnawing blood of sensual death

From pheromones,
To feral moans,
Of sweat beads pushed to erotic panic,
Overstraining the cracked ribs of lust

 

Poem: Unexploded Bomb

unexploded

The unexploded bomb in the back garden,
Household fires that cannot be confined,
The perfect crime that comes begging for pardon,
The pounding nails from the hammer of time

I wanted to enjoy myself,
To surrender to the music,
But you were my obstacle:
A slab of indifference envenoming my enjoyment

Growing demoniac,
My meditation was a palimpsest of lacerations,
Of turning prodding fingers into black, fetid knives,
Carving patterns into the fibrils of your back,
A generous mutilation of your worthless spine

I could’ve eaten you then,
Scattered you in fillets over the dance floor,
The punishment for obstructing me with insignificance,
Making me the steak knife into humanity’s fillet

An obstacle to my ego,
To that which suffers,
Suffering unto the little children,
That disguise themselves as humans

The demon babies in the belly,
The perfume in the smelly,
The cyanide in the elixir,
The gold heart of the trickster

 

Poem: The River’s Daughter

nymph

Waiting by the river,
Watching nymphs dive in the water,
A message to deliver,
To the River’s Daughter

I could not breathe, I could not swim,
Could not reach the air above,
I never had a chance to begin,
To meet halfway in love

Then along came a lady
Clothed in crowfoot and river weeds,
I knew she would betray me,
But I had other needs

I fell her for, hypnotized,
Her aura spreading wide,
I could not move, I could not speak,
I was paralyzed

“What would you, green maiden?
Tell me how to serve you,
With sorrow I’ll be laden,
If I cannot deserve you.”

She looked at me, took my hand,
Pulled me into the river’s waist;
I just wanted to be close to her,
Submitting to fate

“My love,” said she, “I must kill you,
It’s the only the gift you can me,
Unless you die for me,
I cannot live with you,”

I acquiesced and felt the kiss
Of water in my lungs,
I felt the agonizing bliss
Of the river’s killing tongue

Now I lie trapped in the river,
My love flows on forever,
I will never leave her,
Pain will leave me never

I had to die, I had to die,
Death is love’s true birth,
Forever in the river I’ll lie
Waiting for the truth

I cannot breathe, I cannot swim,
Cannot rich the air above,
I never had a chance to begin,
To meet halfway in love

 

Poem: Lake of Ice

202050_theprisoner_heart-of-the-swamp

Why can’t my heart fly?
Sticky and stranded among the rocks,
Enwrapped by tentacles and shelled molluscs,
It lurks among the turbid waters,
Waiting to breach for dry land,
But finding safety in the cool thrill of darkness,

I am treading to you over a lake of ice,
Mindful of every shudder, each stentorian crack,
Taking my time,
Not wanting to thaw with frenzy,
To turn what I love into an evasive enemy,
But chased by persistent fears,
Running razor fingers through the grooves of frost,
I want to hold onto you as a ship’s mast,
The last refuge of a madcap drowning fast

But patience, restraint, are my self-loaded chains,
The bitter laughs spluttering from the lips of my ribs,
The pain of counting out the divisive seconds,
The heart splintered by the season’s dials

Always afraid of making the wrong move,
As though love were a game of chess,
A test of endurance and strategy,
Plotting, conniving, abstracting,
Finding excuses to see you again,
To get closer,
To silently sample each efflorescence of your wonder

To kiss goodnight down timeless streets,
The place where endings and beginnings meet

Poem: Sharing Wildness

shaman.jpg

Who’s the one sitting on all the rockets,
Sacral and root chakra store the furnace,
Smouldering inside from spine to skull,
I feel the intensity of desire,
Of Karma’s strange pull

I hoped if I got to know you,
I could nip it in the bud,
Stop the running bath water becoming a flood,

But my ploy failed,
Prevention only furthered the fuse,
Crackling towards personal demolition

It’s always like this,
Having to make myself anew,
Each time Venus’s arrow goes through,

But waiting in the trees,
The camouflaged hunter,
Tries to conceal his internal disorder,

To dazzle and misdirect
With the fake state of his warriorhood,

Because truth takes time to put into words,
Like the firing of bullets,
Your aim must be good,

And the timing perfect,
Or the proficiency of your kill,
Results in the destruction of your imperfect will

Let’s leave the hunting metaphor,
I refuse to play predator,
Putting myself in your sights,
Preparing the onslaught,
Hoping as I catch you, I will also be caught

A mutual capture of assured finesse,
Not made to tame, but to share wildness