I’M NOT SAYING IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER WITH ME

I’M NOT SAYING IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER WITH ME

You are now separated from the silver canvas
which was a portal to your dreams.
And now you are in a desolate expanse of sleepless
morning, where time blurs into endless drifting.

She once told me her love was a profound blue.
A love of complex cryptic symmetry.
A love consumed by melancholic inertia
adrift in a sea of alienation.

Do heavenly beings embrace a reckless abandon,
or does stability crumble like the commander of the sea,
or a man made mad by the sound of many furnaces
before the mountains are removed?

GENEVA TO PARIS

GENEVA TO PARIS

On every street corner
in every city
and on every mountain pass
a relentless ubiquity lingers
like a spectral
presence.

My wife
a phantom clad
in headgear
walks beside me
a warrior
in a mythic underworld.

Even in the
realm of the fantastical
a semblance of justice
prevails.

Yet fortune feels hollow
my luck as thin as a lover's
embrace and as fragile as
truth.

My love half-mad
with grief
has chosen the path
of finality — suicide she
has made her abode
in a desperate
plea hanging in the air
in the echoes of
her tireless labour.

Is escape possible
or am I forever
condemned to the purgatory
of the 8:25 am train from Geneva to Paris?

LOGIC IS A RIDDLE

LOGIC IS A RIDDLE

In the realm of the music graph,
gargoyle symphonies unfold,
and the mountain crumbles
into dissonance.

And forgotten phantoms nourish
the hollow echoes of
lost harmony.

Through the sonic labyrinth,
distilled beauty is in
discord,and charity becomes an
unwelcome guest in the
abyss of melancholy

We refuse to be
bound by the chorus of lamentation.
We flee to the
sanctuary of the sonic
maelstrom,
where rigidity is only a
concept and logic a riddle.

My love observes this
fragmented world
with wonder, deciphering the
broken language,
ready to weave
a new melody from the ruins
of the old.

WE ARE TETHERED

WE ARE TETHERED

Now location dissolves.
No nadir exists for these,
my kin, birthed from my essence.

We carve beds within charnel houses,
upon coffins draped in
snow.

Crowns of barbarity
adorn their heads—a gaudy
display that masks the
unease.

The reward, though scanty,
holds a slight appeal, yet the path
remains covered in mist.

We are tethered to a zone,
restless and forever
on the precipice of the unknown.

THE THRESHOLD OF JOVE’S COURT

THE THRESHOLD OF JOVE’S COURT

I told them to enter
and see the lamenter
who was a repenter
and became an assenter
to fall to the centre
and become a consenter
and be a frequenter
noble dissenter
and upset tormenter
and bookish augmenter
to make the restrictions
and get the convictions
to cause the new frictions
to burn the sad fictions
like Los's predictions
and all his old dictions
and Ida's depictions
and Milton's inflictions
and Beulah's conflictions
she turned to transfixtions
as she came to the confidante
who showed her the miscreant
who made her feel elegant
with the power of lubricant
and the eyes of the vigilant
and the thoughts of the postulant
and the cowardice of the reverent
and the diplomacy of the celebrant
and the hatefulness of the ignorant
and the safety of the inhabitant
and the words that are blighted
and mediocrity knighted
or the men who are not righted
or the women who are frighted
and soft voices that are spited
with the opinions that are slighted
and the warnings that are lighted
to the ones who feel plighted
as the stalkers who are sighted
turn out to be heighted
for the simple publicity
that crowns our great city
with its glass walled cubicity
and its sky bound toxicity