Aargh 2

Pleated footsteps drift
into furrowed corners,
pruned, with the showering
dryads, the lapping locus
of my limited time, its livelihood.
Yet unattained, sore from sated
greetings, unencumbered still.

You would shrift the seconds,
rend the curtains that
have broken my life,
its cotton prison. Yet,
unfleetingly, the seconds
gaze towards my troubled
tapping fingers,
for they grasp at air, still.

What crudeness lines the skin
of driftinghood, its tidal
morass, a pound of
empty salt living without
worth, breathing its
decomposed dryness?


He would storm
the rock of
mountains to
sink in caves.
Or task the
dreamer to sleep
better in the
garden of illusions,
to run, push, those
breathed up
hormones,
better.


Yet it drew,
like an artist,
rich in the whore-daemon
of its tar-stroked thoughts,
travelling the pavements
of insight, and
watching the silent eyes
of passersby, lovers
it never knew.


Still untaken.
Still untaken.
Still untaken.
Still bursting, still breathing,
still hoping, still re-filling,
this gas-tank of
my Being.

Unprovided, these thoughts rush
like little children, through
the twilight of my life,
oblivious to the
autumn, to the
staring trees, against the
deep blue sea-salt
broken sky.


These calculators! What freshness these numbers have brought to us. Like a strange inexhaustible crossword, it shines like luminous rocks, loving our embrace of the impossible labyrinth.

What a pusillanimous existence! To collapse into a garden bench, where benches have grown into tired men like gold-masks, hidden in the distractions, like soil, for example.


Yes, this bleeding of
grownup soles.
You'd thought they'd cracked,
by now. I tried to sever
my legs from my soul,
or at least,
to twist them out of
shape, so one
moved forwards,
instead. Yet the pen-strokes,
like the Satan-cane,
or that bloody
birthday cake, or
smiling and unpretending friends,
they still form, like
a landscape painting,
a noose,
a life I breathe,
suffocating.


I love being a hypocrite.
I love being a pretentious,
self-whistleblowing
scarecrow to my conscience.
But our acts are
the cleverest ravens.

- Terrible joke/lie.

The page is filled.
These lines-
they cut into life,
quartering it into dungeons.
God is always,
above all, a jailer by profession.