These appetites: Shapes, Run fingers through dimension; And Rimbaud’s regret? To sprawl oneself bare On dynamic growth, youth did not have Depth, Age grows too brittle and arthritic There are worse things than inexperience! The measure is what one has not –yet what Was charming of African earth? -Consistency in the predator’s gaze -A delicate (simple) joy bending to the sun Libertineflesh sheathed its poet’s death; With no remorse in the seasons’ passage This dead poet’s footnotes trailed To find art living as concubine
Hanoi, for you, I without family come 8,000 miles I, the flâneur, walk between your glass gods and carapace-husks take in electric smoke, petrol fume welcoming Sodom where I go here our dreaming Gautama stuck in never-black night the very dead patriarch greeting eternal a fleeting sun and why shouldn't the world (this flesh monopoly) also reel a crusted cheek out of its starry hole? Nonetheless a woman bentback on stool cooks her luncheon patties, smiles to me waves the broth-drip noodle, mint sprigs, with a tong I not unwelcoming sit
the gusts, the pasture quakes bovines yelling in the wheatgrass the stink of flesh, stink of bile irises crushed, crackle of tiny bone colourful pulp flows down the grate drain the human shapes in pockets of dark in dust silhouette clouds hang over the Occident and a pangolin is roasted
The hills of Gondwana did not bear your hatred and split thereby. Nor did the species spread to your design, nor the arc of planets your geometry nor does your brain pump its heart for you, nor is a crimson skyline, the burning juniper, great canyon and the depth of wilderness perfect for your poem, your picture Those tears can never wet the desert, even the sun nukes skin. Even life is a metaphor for death and all written words, the colours on blank, a secret reconciliation with that death Yet still
The sun is a bastard Whom I love. Moon does not understand I am cheating with soil. The mossbeds rise like breath The crows do not observe, they do not know I cheat With worms. Locked in leaves, green juice. Find me Polaris burning in a hovel We knew the world was dark and feral Many heads and fangs, as I, pink tongue Cup rainwater in my milksoft skull. Assail wheat and tawny oat The sprucebranch I hold bending forever
There she is, my love, oh So pretty, so worthwhile Look at the hours go by Take a look at how She uses compassion As 10 sharpened prongs, oh My love, That voice is a Sweet prosody, hear The sizzling of her brand On my skin, oh My empathy, young heart, oh.
sometimes i get stuck in my head.
the green of the grass outside sometimes gets stuck in my vision.
the motion blur in the car sometimes is not blurred enough.
the music in the bar gets into my veins and it’s not loud enough, sometimes.
i don’t want to keep sinking into the same old feelings,
i like the new, like changing old clothes,
it takes time for me to realize i’m not my feelings
There is a need to make sense of experience through a language that is more authentic.
Language sets a standard to define our non-standard selves.
If you analyze yourself deeper, burrowing down to the centre (whatever that is),
the common words, symbols
become disingenuous means to express what it is found;
Convenient placeholders- ready made constructions for mass use.
Poetry is created from an inward movement
orbited to one mind
in the struggle of re-definition.
Experience is the greatest teacher;
Yes, but you need to be humble enough to
understand the lesson.
Like a scene of a crime,
you come back to find what you missed
the first time.
It was too much to take in then;
the shock: too sincere;
so you go back,
and go again;
the memorable dries on wallpaper,
the senses clear
from a cloud of baking soda;
and each step backwards demands more of what was missed
until mystery writes another
the stain of time…