December 2011
26 posts
5 tags
Guy Wires
These converging lines
are not crimson ribbons
but Sangria dipped
guy wires.
.
My plaited hair supports the
mortar, but tourniquets
the plumbing, dampened
over years of adjustment
I wondered into.
.
So, when the order comes to take arms,
I’ll sit upon the century post,
Centre compass.
.
No man’s land
No man’s mercy
For a neckerchief
That is bloodstained.
6 tags
Bruises & Bedtimes: A hybrid.
Ultimately, selflessness has been my Achilles heel.
What is left now is routine. I’m drowning myself in my quotidian self-examinations, smothering my lungs with perfume and painting my lips like butterflies.
Within a week, I will be back in the blissful mundane. All I shall worry about are top buttons, bedtimes and deadlines. I shall have tea in high places, belong to an accent and play the...
5 tags
Drafting Memoires
Lucid and forgettable, now is no time to be dancing
amongst scintillas of the alien.
.
Jaunty refrigerators, livers broken and jaundiced,
Nothing puerile in motion, nor flitting.
But this, this is perusing the finite. She,
or indeed he, will know.
.
Tributaries and creeks in fond lineation
smother lovers with sails.
This chaos will become capitalized.
Peace is restless in noise...
1 tag
On really romantic evenings of self, I go salsa...
There are chances and choices - sometimes you just...
2 tags
4 tags
Homonyms
Pour gasoline or kerosene
or sewing machines
on the browning grass -
chatter chatter.
.
Treading Rhodes to canals
whipping the blinkered dawn.
Nymph, you say, or just
Nymphomania?
.
Cigarette butts sparking
untrodden bracken.
I’ll brand it with my sole.
Soul?
.
Revel in the convention
In the humeral.
5 tags
Rivers
Neatly, in crocodile lines, we’re gliding
on the burning chimera of friction.
Flying, or growling, over hyperbolized
inches embellished on paper, turning trees to
pulp, pulp to snow and snow to rivers.
Rivers to trees.
5 tags
Sunset by Dawn
On the dawn
I’ll ride a falcon
through a field of
spluttering lovers
to the precipice of
a laughing economy.
Plastic platinum
traces the
sweating palms of
lust and loathing.
Two things,
less evil than
kindess, more
demanding than
death.
5 tags
Life in Six Boxes: Part Five
Maybe this time, the waves will drown in the salt
Or suffocate from the fury of seagull hurricanes.
.
Maybe this time, we won’t carve up the oak with a
Chelsea grin and label our splintered soubriquets.
.
Lip prints and fingertips and bad prescriptions
Smeared the patio doors with which we collided,
Steeped in sibling rivalry and patent shoes.
.
And tiptoe into a left footed waltz that runs...
4 tags
6 tags
In the arms of an orchestra.
It is funny to remember our lyricism
and tiresome to forget which of
our instruments caved the swolen
crescendo. Counting the bars was
easy when we began the fugue, but
now, I only see black helium balloons
leaving with their dignity and a
broken score.
.
Tonight, no matter how I try,
I cannot tap a melody.
3 tags
To anybody who may have a spare ticket for Bon...
I will sell you my soul for it.
8 tags
Hindsight, Unrequited.
Planets to suns, moths to light, you to me
Eyes blind to each canary warning sign
Hearts fumbling through the hands of gravity.
.
Wade through crepuscular obscurity
To hazed horizons where the fires align
Planets to suns, moths to light, you to me.
.
Enamored, our hell fires seem to be
The blooming embers of the late benign
Hearts fumbling through the hands of gravity.
.
Throughout the throes of...
7 tags
Into the Fray.
One foot before another, backwards up
the aisle, the altar pegs the distance between
it and the murky white petticoats that are
sweeping up confetti. I walk.
Who would have known the invitations
were sacrificial? Not I, my very own
marble cenotaph mottled by the draughts
that caught us pulling godlike faces.
Somehow, now, I cannot tell what is ours
and what is mud or where we laid...
4 tags
Sherbet Fountains
After our quaint rendezvous, aspersions
lunging through the underworked lacuna
just like tiddlywinks, I necked another
sherbet fountain and suckled on the
ruthlessness of a licorice stick, middle
finger to the moonlight. I waited,
.
For the fall out to settle and blew
circles in the dandruff pitted from
my crystalizing scalp.
.
Was it wrong then, to tease my
cellular snow flakes in...
3 tags
As the bon iver gig in Toronto gets closer and closer, the reality that I don’t have a ticket is slowly killing me.
Sell me one someone. Please?
5 tags
Skin Deep
For all the hours spent stippling forged
zodiacs in the vapid stratospheres of your eyes,
a little temerity peppered your hypothesis
on why I read the Sunday papers.
As you guffawed, you sneezed on superficial
(who happened to be drunk and ruddy
under the kitchen table, nursing his bloody
knuckles on the spleen of the tiles).
.
He was the only one who
recognized the constellations
...
6 tags
A Bad day for Literature.
Poetry is dead.
.
No, these aren’t white pages,
or even the palettes of days.
They are the negatives of the
gaps between the film reel.
My words are chemicals, not
fucking vehicles.
.
Venomous bastards.
3 tags
6 tags
Goodbye Gluey Tuesday
Wiser words have been flung across
the aerial tides than mine
(I’ve tried writing them) but,
of the two of us, I was flotsam
and you, jetsam and together
we skirted around islands.
You promised it was better to drown as
Persephone than survive of common sense.
Oh what terrible criticism, to you,
to be the bourgeois! Though, through
that thick fringe you cannot see that
...