5 Poems from this morning

Waiting for me


My enchantments as ephemeral as eternity

As nortoriously torturous as the coin of liberty,

Bring me to a world forgotten by all, —

Several infact!…


Before we set sail, answer me this:

How deep is a mood? What composes thought?

What is the diference between a colour and a sound?

Between a shape, a word?


If something seperates them,

Something must connect them —

What is the anatomy of belief?

What disects belief?


This is the investment of logic

The West negates through pride,

The reason for stupidity

Neglecting a meaningful sound…


We’re always leaving home,

Trying to unearth our bone:

There’s no difference between

Difference but you.


What was the first creature

To will for music? —

Who first became a pupil

In the eye of the storm?


My enchantments are as stretched as tomorrow,

As futile as these villified reflections.

I know of a world forgotten by all, —

Several infact!…


My enchantments as ephemeral as eternity,

As nortoriously torturous as the coin of liberty…


Before as I thought


The flurry of wind unlatched the wristwatch

Shaving a cougar tooth magnetising wood —

The predator constantly reminds itself of death,

The pray is left open to the peace of shadows.


The countdown hands in hysterical laughter

Reconciling innocence to queues in blood —

The hollow scarecrow revives childhood by faking breath,

The field he grazes upon photographs a friend.


The incurable plague filtering movement

Focuses on the boredom of cockpits —

Animates itself to an image concealing love

Amongst men denying divinity amidst perfection…


(The artifical echo pounces again…

The pilgrim wearing a crown

Bursts into tears at Dawn…



The cot has not been totally recycled —

I cannot afford to count my fingertips.


This sick child chained to rebellion

Rests in the ease of the disease of oblivion.


His incarnate desire to glance back at shapes

To form a Shepard from the clouds,

To pave originality whilst staining a lab coat

With sweats of neon wine and milk


Is Nothing — Nothing But the spirit exercised

Through the reconciliation of delightful resilience.


From under the closet door, magma leaks.

The mountain of ash is the skeleton of life.


The mirror is a whirlpool of infinity,

I am the vessel of all possibility.


The most basic rage pauses for a breath —

I cannot afford to count my fingertips.


Eve dangles her breast over a choir,

Eastern pride is only known in the West.


Nothing was planned, it could only have been,

The pilot must be willing to bleed metal —

I know the recipe for my soul, but I suspect

Admiral BlackBeard’s role of an Eskimo is only the glory of

                                    a counterpart.





A tail-noose untangles flat on the floor,

The silver orange is marked with green.

These rituals unseen in flesh exist only in a dream,

A music out of tune with a preconceived core.


The radience you consider bucolic is merely sweat,

The pale gunner herds nothing but deafness,

The crescendo waddles behind steadilyS

Searching for the General Confusion tuned to a trance.


Rebuttle (The Diamond halts for the Echo)


The Diamond halts for the Echo.—

Three naked rats scurry beside the riverbank,

An open casket refuses to admit the vampire

Is waiting for another therapy session

With the blind priestess

Painting crosses black at Dawn —

If this is worth anything

I have to commit to another death,

Even then the Narrator makes himself immune

To the incessant disease of natural admission, —

The Diamond halts for the Echo.—