Tombstone garden

Imbroglio bedlam –
madness wing, twin
windows barred behind
a wilting cinquefoil

Twisted linen ropes
escape each, abseiling to
the tombstone garden where
within the pistil presses

Genuflect beneath sacrificial
temples sullied by questions,
reverent before silent halls
unadorned by answers

Guiding the supplicant
hand of god to take a
life, to free a life of god-
given mayhemic servitude

Movie night

Moonray nocturne
at sweltering dusk,
sweat bedighted lines
from the pale actor’s
whip, rake his torso

Obdormition onset
by ignavy, recumbent
on his bed, mesmerized
by the spinning blades

The rotation mingles
with blueish hues and
shadowed cues; dust
provides the grain
in this 16mm strobe

A movie projection
flickers to life, of life;
choices and decisions,
questions and questions
and confessions

Obsessive palinoia
righting the wrongs
into award-winning
fictions; speeding ictus,
ceding critics

Spinning blades, subtle
invitations made, keratin
knives and bloody palms,
paresthesia spreading
with breaking dawn

Celluloid swatting,
end of the reel, marks
start of the real;
until again movie night
comes around


she bore
a pedigree of insanity
familial psychosis
incarcerations for generations
by the state of disrepute

she grew ocellated skin
to watch all those around
congenital paranoia from
generations of incarcerations;
and absorb she did

news in the common room
of war and isolation
famine and torture
religion and murder
greed and lies

magma flowed through her
she’d be the catalyst against
the state of disregard
a state in motion –
always in motion –

inventing ways to silence her,
as they did her progenitors,
and their’s before, criminals
creating laws and roadblocks
spreading rumors, violent threats

marching their army of
dead heads,
their zombies of terror
homegrown terror, and
she struggled with

a pedigree of humanity;
fighting fire with fire
that broke the laws
created by the ever moving
chameleonic chaos

to protect the madness,
the power, until
she couldn’t fight
couldn’t speak, couldn’t

incarcerated in silence
watching the world burn,
the minority of insanity
generated her state
of disrepair

Naked poetry

As I encroached the morning mere, a lonely pock on its pristine shore, I espied a damsel knelt naked at the water’s edge, beneath heaven’s reproach

She had yet to notice my presence and I was disinclined to disturb her respite, howbeit I could not avert my marvel

She beguiled me with every move, envincing ballads in elegantly folded hands resting upon her lap and elegies with the downward cast of her tilted gaze

With a cinquain, she reached for the gold, cordate lavaliere that adorned her gracile neck, detaching it with utmost fluency

Hinged delicately at its tip, she opened fully an obcordate half, though what was held within the periapt, I knew not

A miniature hourglass simulacra when opened, flowed not with sabulous moments, but salinity she fed in its stead; then a lacrimosa that only streamed widdershins, betrayed the inscape of her torment

And I found myself reifying the sorrow as it obnubilated her visage, shedding my own time with hers

She had a threnody where her heart should be, and I was appetent to tear her limn from limn

But at once she stood in an enjambment of grace, her bistred sonnets waved with the lamentous wind, her satin, laced gown rippled in obeisant verse

Then a faint, determined plash in the water nigh, ere she turned empty-handed; and with the zephyr fared to the circumjacent wood, sans a backward glance

She was poetry, naked for the world to read, and reperfused my wizened heart

The forest path

He once walked the
forest’s path beneath
its saber arch, listening
to the march of crisp,

falling leaves in the
distance, electrified
by the banshee wails
of crickets keening

through the trees, lulled
into serenity by the
songbird’s reverie
Then from a voluptuous

horizon, came she;
variegating his dwelling
in silvery pendalogues,
poetical prisms, and

sombrous piquancy; wetting
his canopy into myriad
resplendent waterfalls,
accompanying his lullabies

with subdued percussive salt
Until her tempest fell; wild
violence unburdened by
loyalty, deafening howls

disencumbered by honour,
rending a lightning seared
wasteland of stochastic
devastation, clouded by jejune

jealousy and capricious char
His is a forest of memories,
smothered by oppressive
towering rampikes; skeletal

dreams piercing once
vibrant flora, longing
to caress the azure skies
beyond their handless

grasp, seen only when he
ventures paths within
Alone he waits in quietus,
a velleitous tree dying

in the barren wildwood; no
melodies to share his
company, no honour guard
to inhume his bones; his

roots trapped by the soil’s
filth, his marrow decayed
by the forest’s corruption

What is the reason for being

Happy people aren’t trying to mock you
Happy people don’t even notice you
Or they fear being swallowed by the likes of you

Couples don’t hold hands to smite you
Couples hold hands to be attached
Or to keep the other hands from wandering

The woman isn’t parading for your eyes
The woman is parading for her own eyes
Or for her rival, best friend’s

The man isn’t posturing for your enjoyment
The man is posturing for his verile egoism
Or to fulfill his inherent simplicism

They aren’t interested in what you have to say
They praise you to flaunt their magnaminity
Or to entice you to flaunt yours to them

Light isn’t there to pierce the darkness
Light is there for the enlightened
Or for those who can’t see in the dark

The world doesn’t care that you’re here
The world doesn’t even know you exist
Or in its death throes has forgotten

The truth is unconcerned by your beliefs
The truth is cold, unerring adamant
So you have your own truths there to protect you


She’s the fade of the smile when they turn away
She’s the burn in the red, puffy eyes
She’s the space between heartbeats
Not living nor dead
She’s the pause at the end of the sighs

She’s the track that remains from the path of a tear
She’s the nod to the voices unheard
She’s the lack of all passion
As he climbs in her bed
She’s the want that speaks not a word

She’s the change in a world that prizes accord
She’s the notion that yet bore the thought
She’s the rage in the cage
But she’s chained in her head
By the lessons that society taught