V.88

The lake surface is dusk-white noise –
Just so many cut paper gulls
and silhouette ducks – then the dark
cuts across this inner distance

I sit in the greying evening
reiterate a dead song-form
– that of assuming the stances
of nature. But nature is gone

and what remains is a dammed stream
and what remains is a lake house
– people moan and run from nothing
and wheeze. I can’t reach beyond it.

There’s only the monotone lake
whose forms insulate nothing from
nothing. An image of a false
image. I make my offering:

In the morning, a red dawn comes
and fixes the sky in crystal.
Intergalactic prison ships
revolt and institute the new

through law. But for now, the moon hangs
in soft focus, and swans are fed,
by fallen branches whose mirror
in the lake caresses the sky

Collapse

In the winter sun I saw, a gold
forest of leafless trees appear
It was warm in the shower and the wind
could be heard at night on the eaves
I played games on the evening
and in the morning I played games
The tangle of ideas has become full
and the temptation arises of a sword
Stupid people say stupid things
and I cannot be sure of my difference
I cannot be sure of the world
but I can be sure of the deep house
I drink stimulants all day,
and in the morning I drink stimulants
My heart is a construct of ideas
of the faster beat and slower thought
I cannot be sure of my body,
my thoughts of my body are dark mirrors
I hold inside me a red liquid
I hold in my hands a rare earth element
In the winter sun I saw dirt on the screen,
and the night wind brought desert dust
I am a rare earth element, they know
my paranoia grows and shrinks in ceaseless
patterns I never see coming or going
It was warm in the shower as I heard
the guitar be generated by movement
The tangle of ideas is a symptom
of competing interests conceived as a whole
I cannot be sure of the political body
as its organs revolve, unconnected

*

In the stream of time games appear
and the faint sound of choirs
Things repeat and repeat and I hold
within me this repetition and outside
the wind flicks between warm and cold
I hold my loved ones close
I hold my hands clasped in the darkness
The answers I have found to crumble
and rebuild, and repeat only in torn
forms like recycled paper used for chips
or packing paper used to wrap objects
Words lie in ranks on the tablecloth
Connections form and are lost again,
being lines between lost things
In the christmas quiet I heard peace
In the blue fire of the hob,
small fragments of history gave us heat
The world is an organic simulation
Time pours through us and damages us.
The tangle of ideas rests in parallel lines
and smooths out the kind of fear we feel
The fire is warm on an evening
the sting of heat on my legs
the sound of ancient voices from my childhood
and far off trumpets and the brightness
Another year passes, I cope more easily
In the christmas quiet I heard peace

*

And what is there to say
when all stories are noise
and all stories are equal in their relation
to the void and what is there to say
and what is worth saying
when all words are noise and void
and all stories are at risk
From day to day I tumble from this mood to that
and often forget what I have said and believed
From day to day my purse grows lighter and heavier
From day to day the world goes darker
and darker and brighter and hotter

From day to day the clouds pass over the face of the sky
and the moon’s blank eye, and I
If they do not care to save the earth
why should we care for them?
If they do not care to save the earth
why should we care for them?

*

In the end, the sun enfolds the trees
and as I gaze at the page, it watches me
Collapse is a strange thing, it threatens,
but never quite finishes with us –
my heart is a construct of golden ideas
a web, a force, a soul, a sun tower
The future cannot help, but out of the present
it flowers, and we can help ourselves
In the sun, I see, a winter sun behind a sea
of branches, there where I lose myself
to find what there is to see

V.13

The way the world works is different
each day – I see new shadows bloom
and then germinate, I suppose
a lot in this explanation

and so of course I must admit
exceptions to everything said –
like the overheating light is
the exception to the sun’s warmth

of character. I admit that
one point of view is not enough
to view the other points, that is
if you want to create pure space

to breathe. If you make exceptions
by habit, soon you will see that
simple graces of the sun rise
are an exception to the dark

and everything will deafen you
with magnitude. I have a cup
of mint tea every now and then.
My body thinks that everything is

a treat, and surely exceptions
can be thought up to that as well.
but what am I saying? Something.
Ideas can be e-mailed to

Playing Final Fantasy on a Friday Evening

Phoenix down for my life, search
ether for my poems, steal
a princess but with summons
and random battles of dark
anxiety which can be
Big Bad dark on such a day
press a, press a, contemplate;

The black mage on the sofa speaks
little, but softly speaks
of great problems, loneliness
of creation, how meeting
your creator is not wise
how harshly the mist machines
just disappoint and turn off

But there is such light here, in
Aeris, in life’s crisp power
which always courses, pulses
deep in the planet, guiding
all, and that is not to call
attention to its steward:
Nobuo Uematsu

The bombing mission plays on
each morning bears new twists, raids
elaborate stories and
weirdly wide range of monsters
as here, so it is in there;
little explanation, but
just wait, worth levels upwards

The Sun

The sun my angel rise on an autumn morning
this is the allegory. Seemingly unchanged
a sea of dark grey shades, an orange tint
this first morning mourning, the light of a firefly
suspended on that sad height the sun, glows
the word glows with a sad inability to match –
who has set the atmosphere on fire?
I fear the dark fire of the winter which,
I fear all seasonal signs and portents
be it leaves on the floor, a frozen sheet

The Darkness Metaphor

Vessel:Morticia:Loc:Crossing-Centauri-Gulf
Ledger:Captain’s-Poetic-Communication-Allocation#23

++So you talk to me of comfort/my friend
and darkness/well I’ve this- –
if the endlessness of our darksky
were placed against them/I
would mark it as a grain of dust
hanging in their beam of sunlight
on a summerday’s comfort/
gleaming ironmetal to its rust++
They are as darkness to me/how it flies
curving out at equal speed to my light
as we lie together sweating sparks of touch- –
they are my eclipse/my thunderstorm
my oceandeep gloom, my envelope++
They are the stranger standing in the room
who disappears on waking++
They are my dark/they are my gloaming ++
They are not sound/but silence/after chatter
shook violentwise the eardrum and composed
a mindset to accept the wind and void++
They are not caress/ but lack of touch
on a breathless day under unfeeling sun
when all the cares of our space burn into my skin
in noise and fury++You see/Gomez/
You grade things wrong when you throw this out::
We measure all things, and give them measure++
It might be right to prefer the finale/and doom
To the end of the connection/holding in storm
The weatherfronts of myself and them++
They are my welcome gloom++

The Lack

I sit here gazing into our garden
and my thoughts are thrown to a future
where you are gone from the world –
by the sound of voices and strings from the radio

I imagine your funeral, the darkness of the church
The tears of the congregation of your life
and me sat here in this house again, after
gazing into the future without you

And I catch a taste of what must be
the lot of the losers, having lost their shining thread
drawn into old places, without the old guard –
the cursed nostalgia, unrelenting

Unable to move, unable to remove
from life, the anchors of the past
and I understand for a second
what loneliness is.

And for a second it destroys me.
The lack is not someone missing –
it is someone all too there, overdetermined.

Your loss, already overthought
will haunt me until it, too, passes
and we see my real reaction.