Have I told you that you’re my lucidity? The clearest thought that settles somewhere in the back of a shadowed mind, and slowly, gently, inch by inch, lights it up, until I’m smiling again though my eyes are bloodshot and I’m staring like someone catatonic, looking through the phases of my life and time? You […]Read more "Lucidity"
A lament rises from these dry bones, encased in a coffin of a life gone by, when I was young, my father the demon, said, “I am thine and thou art mine,” with a devilish, deceitful, duplicitous grin, when I was young, my mother the angel said, “Stay strong and surely, you’ll succeed,” with a […]Read more "A song of experience"
I’m a synthetic cockroach who was manufactured in a lab in Siberia after the Third World War. Born with an IQ of over 200, they sent me on different espionage missions to the United States of Europe, and I complied and sent them tons of data using my antennae, but Avant-Garde Jazz changed everything. I […]Read more "Cockroaches and Jazz"
My sorrow, she comes to me, when lifeless apartment complexes with windows like cardboard boxes with holes punched in them replace the honey chested, sweet, ashen-winged thrush with her vivacious, polyphonic birdsong, and echoes of who I’ve become are the only voices in my mind, saying, “You’re forever failing, and falling into a fading symphony…you’re […]Read more "Lessons"
I thought of her when that romantic cottage with its burgundy chimney, walls of stone and dreamy garden leading up to a calm, comforting, consoling canal became a favela: a machine gun, overpopulated, tumbledown town with littered streets, giving a sojourner no succour. I thought of her when post-rock songs by Mogwai, If These Trees […]Read more "I think of her"
We juiced up mustangs with bad vinyl and obtrusive hoods, We drove past gutters, dirty smoke shops and disgusting bars To get a glimpse of Linda Ronson fucking in the woods. We gave our spirits to abandon, scorning fame and goods, Because prestige is like a blade that cripples, stings and mars, We juiced up […]Read more "A villanelle for the hedonist"
When I met you, looked deep into those black-velvety eyes, I knew I found my muse, a Blue jay: ashen, muted grief, steel-blue quietude, and a mosaic brilliance concealed except when you glided with your poetry, the Cherry Blossom tunnel I walked through all those years, stooped, no longer seemed dreary, and as I read […]Read more "Fade"