Broken Anchor Chains [poem]
When wild untameable feelingthought impulses
wash their pheromonal tide against your temple walls,
you know your anchor’s chain has broken welcomely
and any ‘where’ becomes your tattered destination.
Old itineraries (now defunct) contain no information
while you flounder in the drowning dreely foam.
Mons Veneris [poem]
[A Valentine’s Day poem for the mystery
lover who will one day kiss my world]
There is a place where particles
of any kind of mine can flow
explode unload implode feel
free to fulminate ferociously
upon and under over through
vermillion skies + cobalt blue
between the skin of me and
any yearning she who innerly
belongs with all her positrons
between my silken sheets.
I’m Pregnant [sonnet]
The two lines came up on the test-strip’s face;
there was no avoiding what it stated.
I’m pregnant! Now there is no hiding place;
Proof that with the Muse I’m conjugated.
A Flood of Dark Unrhyme [poem]
Within our little bubbles we create a cozy world
of safety first — our unlived dreams suspended
on a thread of fisher’s line, outside, untouchable
yet visible through blurred astringent visioncy.
Those bubbles never burst unless, with fluentish
alacrity, we wonder what it would be like to float
out there & cut the dreamly cords with bright new
hands, delighting in the way their fingers work.
Beyond the Margin [sonnet]
Sometimes we have to walk outside, alone,
in darkness, while the light remains unreached
in temporary blindness (source unknown),
with all our thin defences soundly breached.
From Toaster to the Freezer [sonnet]
So now I take my leave from blue and sun
(to make my home in biting wind and snow).
Their work upon my soul has now been done;
but they are not enough for me to grow.
For art must have an edge to be of note
so one can fall and break some bones and bleed.
But when that ‘edge’ with ease I sugarcoat,
withdrawal of the Muse is guaranteed.
Have you seen my Rose? (part 1) [sonnet]
Have you seen my rose? said I, with strangled
vocal chords — my pleadingness distorted
by the criss-cross patterned veil which dangled
down around my face, my vision thwarted.
Why give me eyes and voice then hide my rose
behind a shrouded whisperful disguise
I never asked to wear? But no one knows
and none can tell me where my flower lies.
Only Music [poem]
Only music makes me breathe more so than
any body-weaving skinsome love or
other form of nature pain relief.
Without the frequency of sound abounding
round the chambers of my aural sensitivity
I wilt and lose my verdant leaves —
my fronds turn dirty brown,
my shoots for quavers grieve,
my sap no more will bleed,
my roots will no more feed down
through the beauty-bounty broken ground
to home themselves in cleansing earth and clay.
Only music makes my blues and multibruises go away.
The Three Main Levels of Love
WHY DOES THE ESSENTIAL UNDERNEATHNESS OF EVERYTHING seem to be so wonderful, even though I know that, in earthly terms, what lies above it is not? Sitting here quietly on the quayside, watching the boats drift in and out of the port, the whole panoply of everything wraps itself in a vast ocean of love and I am thereby undone. I see a man with frayed collar and cuffs and the face of a worn-out dog walking as if he never has anywhere to go or anything to live for. I see a woman with makeup caked awkwardly on her face and her lips painted red inelegantly, rendering her with a tragic clownlike appearance. I see a weeping small child with dirty face and frayed, stained clothes being frogmarched by her distraught, blackeyed, run-down mother. What else can I do but weep for the world with its bottomless black holes and unfulfilments. Yet… somehow… everything (even that which appears to be dysfunctional) seems to be “in place” — suffering merely from the effects of a latent transitoriness, awaiting a regrouping of cells.
Ancient Scripture Text
ANCIENT SCRIPTURE TEXT: “When thou seest that the lunaticks have taken over the asylum, then thou knowest that the end of the aeon draweth near. Thus, not only must thou watch and pray but thou must also prepare thyself in every way. For there will be divers earthquakes, fire and brimstone, pestilences, wailing and gnashing of teeth. Children will turn against their parents and brothers and sisters against one another as light and darkness cross their paths. There will be division in all corners. Many will be perplexed and turn to each other and say “What can this mean?” The sky will also then be darkened. And at that time will man’s haughtiness come to its apex and onto the stage of this present world there will be revealed one who is not a man (but sayeth that he is). And he will rise up and place himself on a throne made of the bones of the martyrs and call himself a being of light (though he be not of the Light). And many [most, ed.] will be deceived by him and throw flowers in his path and place laurels on his head and will sing his praises, for he will promise peace and salvation. Those few beings of the Light who will remain alive on this earth will in that time see all these things and know in their hearts what is truly coming to pass. And they will mourn for the folly of the world and, speaking the truth before man, they will open eyes and hearts of those who have eyes to see and ears to hear. Then will chaos break out once more and many [most, ed.] will be swallowed up by the earth and consumed by fire and brought to naught by pestilences. All of these also are the birth pangs and herald of the new aeon. Therefore, at that time, in worlds unseen, there will be rejoicing among the angels and there will be new heavens and a new earth and all things will be made new in divers ways no man can now fathom and the former things will no more be remembered.”
The Naked Troubadour 