Love (after Frank Herbert)


Love bids me closer still, yet as I turn away,
Revealing my redemption from a wasted day,
Love holds me tighter, yet as I lose my grip,
A rock upon which sits my sinking ship.

I say to Love, let go and let me drift away,
Deserve I not redemption on this wasteful day,
I say to Love, no sin if you should lose your grip,
It was a different rock that sank my listing ship.

Love answers, I could let you drift away,
Preserving the redemption for a different day,
Love answers, yes my hands will lose their grip,
To pluck your listless body from your sinking ship.


The Encounter

Uncategorized, Visions

She flicked her hair and looked me in the eye.
“So, what can you do?” she teased.
I gathered up my tricks.
I figured this one would be hard to please.

“Well, I can take a thing that’s beautiful and pure
and turn it into something base and vile.
I can show it off to you in all its fine and ugly detail
and show it up to be a mere aggregate of cheap normalities,
a random and subjective shell.”

“Not bad”, she said. “But show me more.”
I hesitated for a second.

“Well, I can do a thing or two with words and pictures. Here:
I take the lessons and philosophies of our ancient masters
and turn them inside out, into an introspective exhibition
of my own perversions. And I will dance upon the denigrated remnants
like some horrific clown.”

“You’re pretty good”, she flashed a smile,
“We might have something going on.”
Enthused, I carried on.

“Hey, I can stand and stare Death in the face,
unflinching, as it crawls out of tired and defeated eyes,
and I will look unmoving and unmoved by pain or empathy
as it shows me prisons of such subtle form and gilded intricacy
that they escape by hiding back inside.”

Her tongue played with her lower lip.
A small crowd had gathered. Now I was on fire.

“That was nothing. Look: I can make God disappear.
Just like that, a bit of sleight of hand and one considered jab,
his many forms impaled on inches of my invective logic.
And lo! his followers are nothing more than puffed-up bearded women
and we can laugh and stab our fingers at their blindness time again
long after there is nothing left to find.”

Now she was squirming with excitement.
“I’ve never felt like this before.”

So sweet, this Devil’s whore.

Ode to muse

Songs of Love, Songs of the Everyday

There was a time when boys would rush to light your cigarette.
Now your relatives come brandishing serviettes.
And there is no reclining torsoed demi-god
To feed your coy reluctance sugared wine on Tuscan bread –
You’re calmly feeding your reluctant sons instead.

And sure, there was a time when Sundek’d sailors
Would come to hang from your strings in the summer gales.
Ahh, those burnished torsoed demi-gods –
They all wanted to drown in your treacherous dreams.
But you’re in too deep now for such trinkety things.

And afterwards you’ll sit and reminisce a little
What had gone right and what had gone amiss a little.
But you’ve no need for the lies of demi-gods.
You have the ear of angels instead.
And I am opening the wine and cutting up the Tuscan bread.

– O –

Written on occasion of Francesca’s birthday.