Poem: Alive Or Dead


Raped by the infinity inside myself,
Each moment confronted by more than I am,
A turbulence of high strangeness, difficult to resolve,
The mystery of darkness in the marrow of man

Laying in bed cocooned in everchanging images,
Beasts from the underworld with ten million heads,
Temples richer than Babylon – starlight flashing in the faces
Of the angels and demons, neither living or dead

I want to make sense of it – yet yield to the senseless;
Explain everything – yet remain mystified,
I feel impossibly powerful, yet utterly defenceless,
A God and a Baby – dying and deified

She keeps me from sleeping, this relentless conundrum,
It tortures, burrows deeper, yet occasionally relieves
The same pain it triggers, unearthing in shivers
The answers and illusions I inseparably receive

I dream of a yellow dragon perched high in the mountains,
The grandeur of her age, immoveable and pure,
I film her with my iPhone, desperate to capture
Proof of the sacred certainty scientists so abjure

But it’s not about proof – hold fast the golden core!
The undying inspiration – the muse within the mad –
Is it possible to be a poet without always being at war;
Caught in the abysm between the good and the bad?

It is the highest vocation, most rapturous, yet hurtful,
A shit-bespattered surveyor in uncertainty’s mines,
A touchstone of experience -yet secure from its terrors
Can you ever hope to be as master of its rhymes?

I do not know – there is no grandeur of conclusion,
No closure, no judgement, no forgiving finality,
The adventure continues -but of this I am certain:
A poet, alive or dead, I ever must be


Poem: The Eternal Sparrow


It seems foolish and melancholy
To dwell solely on impermanence,
When past experiences dwell in what I presently feel,
And new experiences rekindle old flames,
Switching between streams of primary colours,
Finding continuity in the shadow of what is no longer there

The sparrow may no longer be in the hedgerow,
But you can find his echo in every hedgerow,
And his furtively swaggering call rings out from a blueprint
Even time cannot smother

For wings are the science of the imagination,
And they flap every time a thought returns to itself,
Like roots sinking through a decaying mother,
Buried in a graveyard of heather

To live with William Blake,
On an eternal lake,
In changelessly changing weather


Poem: The Tiger of Psyche


Jungle tiger stalking through the woods –

Who can harness your chthonian moods?

From afar, your beauty invites – inspires –

Up close, from fear’s throat suspires

A ghastly moan, as of venting steam,

The shadow of a dream fructifies a scream,

And those legendarily beguiling stripes,

Become the very daggers of the night


Beauty is beauty, separated from us by leagues,

But its breath on our face terrifies us indeed,

Beauty cannot be beauty without a centre of terror,

As truth is closely cuddled by the snugness of error,

We are seduced by the smile that pirouettes on its lips,

Until our own flesh its jaws indelicately rips;

A kiss is a potential until the conjunction converges,

And from the foretaste of pleasure – danger emerges,

Foreboding a loss of control – a dissipation of self –

The lightness of delirium becomes darkness’s wealth,

Telling those that would love, and blend with their light,

And dally with lips when all is perfect and right,

That light casts shadows – and shadows must dine –

On Insecurity’s Triumph, and Paranoia’s Opium Wine,

And the candle-light setting – the triumph of romance –

Are the dwellings of Dionysus in his dangerous dance,

A trance of sublime terror – the unconscious’s prosecution,

As nimble expectations are assembled for execution


In the Cathedral of the Psyche, I worship the unknown,

The place where The Tiger unmaliciously roams,

Yet, invidious, yet, for its only motive pressing,

Is to prepare all your illusions for a toothsome undressing,

Beliefs will be munched on – delusions are slaughtered –

Epiphanies wrung from you in strange, Chinese tortures


And still my body is a weapon of unmedicated suspense,

I am always too much – I am always too intense –

And I make no apology – ‘twould be a fallacious breath –

To say I’m not a creature of unspeakable depth;

Like a tiger, I don’t just want meat, but to gnaw on the bones,

To fuck Truth’s Own Self – not its illusory clones –

To get to the marrow of all I desire;

To find the spark of truth in the destruction of fire


And in the jaws of our lovers, we find what has been, and what will be,

The Old Empire of Agony – and The New World of Reality


Poem: Conversations With Rumi


Sweet Rumi, and Prophet Gibran, lend me your hearts!

Let me not be corrupted by hate, nor the enmity of wounded

Pride; the mouldering coal of anger that inflames my myocardia,

And obstructs the outlets of my infectious affection


Let me not be a hypocrite – I have promised to give,

So let me give – give, even when I feel only the indifference

And inattention of those I give to – when I offer of myself to

The point of exhaustion only to be met with distant stares


It makes this wounded child want to repair into a Grinch,

A burglarizing old Saturn, and declareth thus: “I have

Given, and been denied loving gratitude, so wherefore

Shouldst I give?”


Abide not that Reuben! Take that Reuben –

Slap him in the face – and sayeth unto him:


“Give, Reuben – give until you have donated the very bones

From your back; give of your skin – give until you are so itchy

And inflamed, your tender layers excoriated by blazing sands,

You can barely stand for the pain of how much you give


“By all means cherish those that receive your love,

And return it too, for they heal you and remind you

What it is to be whole – to be the middle ground

Betwixt Heaven and Earth


“But cherish even more those who neither take your love,

Nor return it, or if they do, give back only in outward displays

Of silent mockery, or glut the ears of your heart with poisoning

Words; those who take your love as but a trifling snack, and, after

Eating it all to surfeit, with no trace of gratitude, have the temerity

To ask “What’s for dessert?” – those to whom you give your most

Precious things only to have them to converted into missiles of

Unkindness to slay and destroy, like the golden statue of a

Glorious saint or king melted down to make metal for bullets or

Swords –


“If those that love you are your healers, then those emperors

And empresses of ingratitude are your teachers: they show you

How to steel your love and keep it pure – to persevere in a love

That cannot be deterred – to make your love the king of all beasts;

To dine on your obstacles as invigorating meats


“Evolution thrives on adaptation – so make your love such a one

As this – a love that refuses to give up – that always find a way

To survive – if at first your love does not succeed, endure, and

Search out the forms it needs to take on in order to be the

Emancipating skeleton key, the hidden jigsaw puzzle piece

That connects every heart.”


“But the blackness of my anger is so hard,” you say,

“I am depleted, duped, dead – how much longer must

I go on refining the steel of my love against the adamantine

Point of other’s disdain, apathy, and hatred?


“Because I have met those that would love me;

That would crucify me with their kindness –

That can clearly see all I strive to do for the world,

And see that it is good.


“Why would I consent to being a pillar of odium

When I do not have to cast myself so bloody upon

Embattled plains? Why would I submit myself to

Aching disinterest, of knocking flint against flint to

Try and rouse love in an unwelcome heart when I could

Receive love elsewhere ready-made?”


“Why would you, indeed?” said Rumi. “Take the easy way

And all will later be hardness; take the hard way, and, as you

Now know, much else will become easier thereby – better yet,

Unite them both, and be indifferent, accepting, and loving of



“No one said you had to make a choice, because how can we

Ever just make one choice about anything? In selecting one thing,

We also create the anti-matter of all we failed to select, and, by

Opting not choose one thing, we are still kept in the pall of

Non-choice’s shadow. One may choose The Path of Happiness

And still find sadness pursuing them like a silent cat – one may

Choose to renounce the world, only to find that the world still

Pursues them in their renunciation, and nothing has been

Renounced at all. One will always find many things one did

Not choose, so why place such great esteem in choices after



“Instead of worrying about what to choose, be mindful of what

You do with what chooses you – be kind to those things you do

Not choose – you’ll have to learn to live with everything eventually

Anyway, so why not make things easier and harder for yourself –

Isn’t that what you’ll do anyway?”


“So, this is what I get,” thought I,More of the hollow philosophy

I went into the desert to get away from: survive – live – die – or

Do not die; choice against choicelessness – self-control verses

Recklessness – egotism verses selflessness – virtue and sin in

Psycho-sexual union breeding more babies of ambiguity to

Keep the world going on and on and on.”


“I hear you, brother,” said Rumi, tugging me by the hand,

And pulling me further into those golden desert sands, “I

Hear your cries, your confusion, your incertitudes, and

Desolating and uplifting attitudes. I hear your thoughts

And all the sly silky nothings that slink between those

Thoughts. I hear them all as clearly as I hear a jukebox

That spurs on a barbaric barroom brawl.


“You want what we all want: you want to love and

Be loved – to feel that confusion is something you

Can overcome – that there is a direction, a purpose,

A motion in life you can eternally trust in – and

Even though you rebel against all linear things,

You still wish the course of life wouldn’t always

Be so frustratingly pinball quantum.


“Think of your friends, Rube. Those who are your friends

May later becomes your enemies, and, by becoming your

Enemies, may prove better friends in giving you things to

Strive against.


“How often have those you loved only proven to be stepping

Stones towards those you would love mightier later? How many

Dashed hopes have unleashed greater joys from the corpses of

Those they lost?


“The problem is the question of Finality – of Certainty.

The desire to have things so, and to have them always be

So: to have an eternal day, and be done with night – to

Have an eternal summer and be done with the savage

Ineluctability of winter – to have just enough love and

No more than you can manage – to have just enough

Solitude, but not enough that all your hopes are ravaged –

This golden mean – this constant ratio – this middle income

Of truth and light – of sustainable joy somehow always able

To vivify itself with an insurance policy against discontentment’s



“But we live in a seasonal world – an excessive world –

A world that will always take things too far, and, in the

Process, take you too far along with it:


“So why not smile and shout when you are happy,

And wail and cry when you are sad – and then reverse

Them, and dance and sing when your are unhappy

And cry with mightiness when your joy stabs you mindlessly

In the heart?


“Either way you experience –

Either way you keep on going –

Because there is no true stillness in this world;

But, like the ball in the pinball machine, you will

Always find yourself rocketing between one point

Of light, and a pair of pincers always ready to strike

You back.


“Like Homer’s Odysseus, you must choose between Scylla

And Charybdis, knowing that, in this union of sea monsters,

There is no real choice at all; between this rock and a hard

Place, you will feel the hardness of hardness, the softness of

Softness; the softness of hardness, and the hardness of softness;

And you will find joy and sorrow in them both; wisdom and ignorance

In them in equal measure.


“So what does it matter? It doesn’t matter which way you sail –

The point is that you sail. The point is that you have the courage

To be freely buffeted by the winds, lapped by the tonguing foamy

Surges of Neptune’s inconstant lover’s broil. Stay at home, and the

Sea will only seek you out – go to sea and seek out, and you will be

Sought by land just the same, if that be not the crux of all your



“Feeling stable, you long for change – feeling only surging

Tides of change, you long for the certitude of land to give

You a supply of paradise’s incorruptible currency.


“Again, the point is neither in choosing change or changelessness,

Finding both in neither, and neither in the above – the point is in

The motion – in the desiring, the end of desiring, and then the returning

Of desiring all over again.


“That is the point:

Motion – stillness – love.”


“I carry no assumptions about anything,” said I,

In return, throwing a bolt of lightning against the

Sand to make it into a glass to mirror us both.


“I know that one cannot choose happiness anymore

Than one can opt to completely outdo the conniving

Machinations of suffering. I choose neither an easy

Love nor or a hard love, for there is no love to choose,

Love being all there is.


“But I am human. I ask questions. I look to the future

And I speculate – I hold up and comparatively weigh

All the possible journeys I make. No one will ever truly

Know if they are the in process of experiencing the best

Of all possible worlds; but still – still there is the desire

That with every action and new direction one takes, that,

In the motion of that direction, we take it and make it in

The best possible way – that we leave no stone of potential

Wisdom, knowledge, joy, difficulty, or obstruction unturned,

Unfulfilled – that we do not lay to waste all those gifts that

Are made to us – that we make sure our cup runs over –

That we do not cease to drink wine until the vineyard has

Completely run dry.


“Who would do otherwise? In drinking milk from the tits

Of the world, who wouldn’t suck at and lust against every

Sacred udder they can find – who would be content to see

The dizziest of dizzy heights without being quest-proud in

Their vertigiousness to see them?


“But I don’t know really know what I’m saying anymore.”


“Then say nothing,” said Rumi to me, sweetly, “say nothing

And be sweet; say nothing and sing instead; say nothing and

Be ceaselessly still and silent and unceasingly without silence

And stillness in your dizzying quest for life and quest to seek

Repose therefrom.”


Then we took one another by the hand

And carried on walking through the sands.



Poem: The Horse


The world behind the curtains:

That is my world – the domain wherein

I can be king, where else I would be but

A pauper – a man in the gutter reading

Out passages of Chaucer . . .


That is my world – yet so few ever see it,

Seeing only curtains – taking the hair of

The horse for the gallop of its heart


That horse could gallop along with my heart,

Its hooves trotting in time to the verses of my

Mind, stopping, nobly, humbly, before us,


That white blotch on its face – the last stain of

A sad eye that no longer sees – that longs to see,

But is forbidden sight by the sickness of its skull


That – that is the spot where I place my hand –

Where I receive and give knowledge – sending

Out and taking in parcels of love and empowerment,

The strangest of strange, war-wizened weapons, that

Only make their bearers feel weaker and weaker


I know what it is to be that horse,

To spend my days bathed – by great swathes of space amazed,

To be simple and sad –

Just a horse among horses


Then something happens.

A stranger creeps over a stile.

And the pattern of their legs meanders towards you,

And by the unhorsey beats of their horseness, you are

 Swiftly beguiled.


“Come!” you say, “I am wild and mild.

I am tame and tragic. I am patient and

Waiting, my hooves hardened by keratin,

And the jealous frustration of thunder.

I am all that you are, slender, unhorse-like



“I come to you for comfort,

Because comfort cannot be got from horses;

I come to you for understanding,

Because understanding is not shared among horses;

I come to you for wisdom,

Not because wisdom cannot be got among horses,

Because wisdom IS what a horse IS –

And, as every horse needs a rider,

So doth my wisdom need a non-horse to ride upon.


“But wisdom is pain,” continued the horse,

A tear falling from her face. “Have you not

Seen the saints cry? Have you not heard the

Wise men wailing? Have you not seen mothers

Confined in callousness, yet inside, as crumpled

And broken as the babes that came from them?


“This is why I came to you – why I humbly bow my

Head to you, and strive to let your fingers softly search

For the spirit of my soul; for, though we are divided,

Man and beast, and beastly man – your loneliness is

Still the same species as my own – the burden of wanting

To give out a gift everybody needs, but no one cares to



“For wisdom is not just pain, but the weapon of love,

The dagger that seeks out the sagging point where it

Might carve itself a home.


“And, I can see your searching eye, strange, unhorse-like man.

Even as you stroke me, and we share a connection that transcends

Body and body, I can feel your mistrust – your awe of my power –

You are so afraid I could trample you to death with my hooves,

That you almost wish I would, just to get it out the way.


“From this I know you know how to love:

When you see an oncoming stampede, you do not run,

But lay down and open up your arms, and call out:


And even when the stampede somehow does not come,

And you suddenly find yourself whisked away to a desert

Plain, and see vultures swooping overhead, you do not flee,

But cry out in a Job-like strain: ‘I AM HERE – EAT OF ME AS



“But no beaks come. No greedy, searching talons rend your

Waiting flesh, or carve grooves into that furniture of space

And time you call your skin. Nothing comes. Nothing symphonizes

Your last moments with the desperate flutter of its wings.


“And that is what love is: a sacrifice – an offering –

Not a gift given or taken, because it has no need

For giving and taking – that would be gain or loss –

Love can never diminish, though it be given and

Taken – because you cannot diminish what transcends

And underlies the very notion of diminishment.


“Can a river be said to give more because it’s banks

Are flooded? Can a volcano be said to make a donation

To the world when it vomits lava to harden into magma

From which new lands and continents will be formed?


“No. Because water will always be water,

Though it evaporate and dry up,

And lava will always be lava,

Though it harden into rock.


“So, love will eat up those who give themselves to it,

And to those that don’t, it will seek them out like a

Dangerous flood. But, whether love comes to you,

Or you to it, the outcome is the same – you will be

Burned and drowned. Drowned – but now as vast

As the immeasurable ocean. Burned – but now

Hardened into the hope of a seed-waiting new land.”



We stood there in silence,

She in her hooves,

And we in our shoes.


We had to go soon,

And I could feel the sad tug

Of an aching bond about to be



I had given you my hands,

My small doses of love,

Now it was time for us to go,

And, with that thunderclap of

Envy, you returned to your sentinel –

Back to being a horse among horses,

Until that happy moment when someone

Creeps over your stile, perhaps to understand

You all over again.



I can no sooner leave my field than you can, horse,

Unless farmers come to cart me away, and turn my

Idiosyncrasies into glue. For my life is my field, its

Demarcations and boundaries; and, I too, stand within

Its confines, just a being among beings, until that fleeting

Moment when someone reaches out their hand, and I can

Feel they understand – and I stand then in patient ferocity,

And drink in all that I can, because I know they will go soon,

And I will return to being misunderstood – a horseless,

Horseless man.



But it will not always be such.

One day I will build a home

Upon the making of such



And I will be happy.

And my happiness will stride out,

Clumsy and sticky, like a newborn foal;

All that is inchoate and formless will be

As palpable and beautiful as a magical



And my house!

What a house!


I can see it.

I can feel its masonry growing upon me,

But I cannot yet describe it.


So, I can walk away from that field now with my friend,

Knowing that, as I leave behind timelessness to commit myself

To the future, I am somehow, magnificently, walking towards

My home:


The home where happiness will have its day,

And then have it all over again.



Poem: The Death of Frosts


Old Age does not come in a moment;

Nor does it creep in with a limp; for

Things do not age here, but retain

Their youth – even when bones

Threaten to burst from their bounds,

Youth remains picturesquely the same.


First the pitch drops, and we lose high

Noises; I look to the ground, and tiny

Elves rush among the leaves, gathering

The debris of autumn into the firewood of

Winter to manufacture a new age for the



Ice Queens pass. I bow my head,

Solemn, chaste, as the white gowns

Of winter inspirit a benevolence more

Peaceful than the fracturing of a



I pass the castle, and carry you with

Me, wrapped in a harness, like a

Swaddled baby. For even, many miles

Apart, I am always thinking of looking

After you.


I will not drop you, though I continue

To limp, and we still have many crooked

Mountains to climb, before the worm

Wriggles from the earth, and the sun

Smiles upon the frosts that die.


This is not old age, but our first real

Flush of youth – all those melodies

Of past lives spent chasing each

Other’s tails – this silent shaman

Has learned to wail – and now he

Has his proof.



And where will these melodies

Take us? What roads will they

Spiralize into the futuristic past –

Where all things creep up on

Themselves, rear their heads,

And tap their backs, saying:


Look – I’ve found you,

Right where I left you –

I was right here all along!”

Did I not do the same?

Did I not tap your shoulder,

Lift up your heart – make you

Bolder? Catching you, delicately,

Unawares, as you fished me

Out my skin?


The wind cannot tell me these things

This time of year – only kiss me, slowly,

With dried lips. And, if we sit still, and

Purse our lips, we will hear the sky

Laugh with a merry burst, and smile,




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.


Poem: The Arpeggio


In the certain rising of an

Arpeggio, can you hear the

Steady ascent of a sephirotic


Climbing up to Heaven?


Relativity cuts this ascent into

Nebulosity – and so the ladder falls,

Crippled into curvature – a soft snake-

Charmery of deceit, going round and

Round, and round


‘Tantra’ means ‘Continuity’ – and

Yet, in my life, all I can feel is the

Continuity of silence and isolation.

When I walk down the street, I see

No interfamilial homo sapien I can

Greet in fellowship – only a humanized

Mockery of deformity that reminds me

How singular, how insular,

I am


What have I to do with these homogenized

Creatures? I would like to pretend to be a

‘Man of the People’ – but, I am about as

Demotic as an iceberg – an ill-giving thorn

Designed to protect,

And not delight


All through the night, I lay

On a bed, inflamed by the moon;

I felt my cavities as one with the lunar

Surface, far-off, yet still influencing

The world


I pray for all. But do I

Ever pray for the end of this





It is hard to pray for something

One is almost pathologically unable

To imagine. Loneliness is my best

Friend – it has never left me, nor

Let me leave it. Except for those strange,

Brief moments, when fires broke out of

A sudden in the winter’s cold


And it is always winter here –

Summer is but a solar flare –

A single hair from a flaming

Maiden, who has long since burnt

To death


Yesterday, I sat in a church,

Entranced by stained glass that

Bespoke vivid visions of a silent

Past. To think of you sat beside

Me, gazing up in admiration of

What you saw; what you wrested

From these windows with your

Uncanny imagination – that thought

Alone was able to win a smile,

Triumphant, against the lingering

Gravity of the day


For an artist to be without their

Muse, is like a populous planet

To be without the sun that nourishes

It: no creation can form –

Only dust upon lifeless dust


But, still, there is life –

Still there is that ineluctable

Call to prayer, that rouses life

In the boniest of bones, making

Queen Bees out of dull Worker



How can I feel joy in life

That only offers more tortures

Based on repetitions and elaborations

Of the same old historic patterns?


Can’t there be some sudden break?

Some drastic fissure? That sunders

Unhappiness from the weight of the

Past, so that to the isles of gaiety,

We can surely sail?


A collision of two worlds –

That’s what I dreamed of

At first, it was just a blip –

A comma punctuating the blank

Page of Heaven –but soon enough,

It was upon us; I was amazed at

How still everything remained –

There was no rising heat – no

Apocalyptic tremors. Even when the

Planet was so close, you could make

Out its individual continents and

Houses, still, nothing seemed to



And no one else could see it

Only me

Only me


And so, I l climbed inside

That arpeggio, and found

A forbidden home for myself

In the isolated harmonies carved

Out by its root, third, fifth, and

Octave – these notes played

Violently above me like the

Mechanical threshings of a

Great big threshing machine –

And I bore deeper into those

Unused harmonies, knowing they

Were the only places I would not

Get hurt


But then I became sick of

Not being hurt – I got sick

Of staying stuck in these isolated

Pockets – these infinitesimal sanctuaries

Of non-arpeggiation


But the threshing machine

Offered me no place to go –

The gaps between the notes

Played on that hurtling repetition

Of Arpeggio were just too fleeting to

Allow an exit


I thought, if I stayed here long

Enough, that I could tighten my

Reflexes, so that even the smallest

Window of opportunity could be

Exploited by my martial prowess


The Arpeggio never stopped –

Its notes drummed into me day

And night – the hands above played

It with tireless, arthritic abandon,

And I could only tell the times of the

Seasons, by the way the intervals

Revolved around themselves


In autumn, the Arpeggio

Would still carry on playing;

But the keys on the harpsichord

Would become cold and scratched,

And the whole surface of the instrument

Would begin to fleck off its

Colour, until it was repainted again

In spring.


But then, one day, the Arpeggio

Suddenly stopped. This was

Unprecedented. Just how could

An Arpeggio stop?

Isn’t the Arpeggio



But God is also The Anti-Arpeggio –

And isn’t the anti-Arpeggio what I

Had been all along?


So, in the interval of his

Un-falsifiable intervals,

I escaped through the gaps

Of the now rusted and placid

Threshing machine, and found

Myself a spot of freedom

In the absence of glory and



Truly, the keyboardist

Returned to his instrument –

But I was no longer the one

Being instrumentalized – I was

No longer the victim of a sonata

That has no beginning or end


And the Arpeggio resumed playing,

With myself being threshed by it,

Every part of me reaped to be an

Unspoken melody’s fodder


Because the Arpeggio cannot

Be hidden from – it is the Lord of

Both Sound and Silence

And if you can find something that

Annihilates both of them, then maybe

This poem will finally end with

Me asking once again:

“In the certain rising of an

Arpeggio, can you hear the

Steady ascent of a sephirotic


Climbing up to Heaven?”

Poem: Cactus


The will to live

And the will to die

The will to create

And the will to destroy

Seem so closely related

That’s it’s impossible to uproot one

Without uprooting all the rest

I carry within me a womb

Filled with shotgun ammunition

And a bandolier

Of seeds to be sown

Your prickly cactus exterior

Only makes you more charming

But my thorns are on the inside

That’s where the bleeding happens


POEM: Invisible Artist


To a tiny yellow ladybug

Your breath is hurricane

Your movements an avalanche

And my purple pachmina

The violet mist

It calls:

“The Milky Way”

Whose breath is it

That blows the world around?

Whose movements cause

All the world to rumble?

Whose hand-stitched scarf

Become the galactic arm

Upon which we are heaved?

And whose thoughts

Are the colours

That paint

Empty space?