Song for a Superior Poet

•06/09/2011 • 1 Comment

In Cyrillic font, you typed
for nine years. With hope,
and more desire than I’ve felt,
you typed (through profundity
and mundanity). You wept,
and how I wanted to hold you;
to kiss your cheeks and say
that you’re stronger than me.

In truth, I fear you. I’m still
troubled by your shadow,
and your long-dried cum;
It’s indefensible,
but I’d like to thank
Google Translate
for the posts from 2003
that made me want to be you
when you fucked her clumsily
(now and then),
and pined for her mouth
in absence; and I’d tell you
that I’m ashamed of
the days I don’t touch
her with tenderness
or speak to her kindly.
Then, when I ponder your grief
or the deadness in your eyes,
I’ll crave any dissolution of your pain
and remember your yearnings;
that I may greet your catharsis with joy.

The Collector

•06/06/2011 • 1 Comment

A contrary impulse
or inbuilt penchant
finds reason to emerge at times.
It is one instinct,
but it defines him;
forcing identity
within and without.
There is pride in his catalogues–
and shame, if he knows it,
tempering synapses
that grant reward and contentment.
His is not a pleasure
shared by the AFP.
His minority has no heroes
among the abstinent stoics
and predatory fiends.
All are guilty by birthright
and accordingly damned.
Therefore, he sits churning:
a consumer; an enemy;
a space in the network.

Little Death

•04/06/2011 • 1 Comment

Your body is finite –
and within it, your mind
is bound to decay,
long after hate or hurt or apathy
accompany your meditations
on our varied acts of congress.

You will not survive
in books or public memory,
and nor will a half-page
celebrate your life-span.

My body, too, is finite;
and within it, my brain
commands impulses
and reactions
fetishised since first record.
And these, too, are finite,
as are all things, flowing or dry –
and better that it is so.

This is transitory, but it is:
graspable, physical,
our forms celebrate their tenure.

Number 12

•03/06/2011 • 1 Comment

Plucking from the tithe jar,
like some cheap twat
is a poor sort of legacy.
And yet, he loved me.

If I appear a victim
of some vicious rewrite,
your pity is well-earned;
long before I top myself
(or trip over the fence).

Thus, my fate is argued
by theologians and ethicists
who fail to agree upon
the extent of my guilt
until Pope Feelgood sees fit
to give me a pardon.

Here, then, are the questions
Upon which mythologies are founded
of sheep and goats
and the concept of free will,
and I beneath it all.

Sappho

•16/05/2011 • 1 Comment

She loves her,
And it seems strange
To me, who knows love –
A curiosity.

Confounded,
I represent her in poetry
And art through centuries,
Forever attempting to grasp
The banality of her essence.

Perhaps that’s why
Her love – like mine –
So ancient, corrodes; fractures
To two mirrors on a set
Fabricating affection.

Narcissa of Chadstone

•16/05/2011 • 1 Comment

Enraptured, she
Lingers in the toilets
And stares.

Despairing, she
Loiters in the complex
And buys.

Hesperides

•16/05/2011 • 1 Comment

There is no longer fruit
in the old grove.
The grass shoots stand unmown.

Now, the walls falter;
adorned with the art of street kids,
and scattered amongst the cans.

The dragon rarely stirs.

I still recall a time
when these motors
heeded the seasons,
adhered to their legends
and hid from our sight.
Back then, we spoke of
fanciful longings of immortality,
thinking the fortifications
stood to keep us out.

Later on, they yielded,
and at last, we glimpsed our prize:
not the serenity we had wished for,
but a cemetery, three graves wide.