Monthly Archives: April 2015

Rich Riot

The bird keeps still, tracking me with its

peripheral vision, hoping I won’t

disturb its enjoyment of the

rich riot rain provokes.

Strange Geometries

What strange geometries we live within–

Euclidian? Non-Euclidian? How many

millions of calculations your

brain makes, navigating the

jostle of crowded streets, plotting the

trajectories of lost tourists dragging

large luggage, the bullish

determination of commuters, the

meanderings of morose souls with ears

stuck to telephones, squeezing through

squabs of exchange students

oblivious to everything—God!

We are all mathematical geniuses

deep within our brains and yet

in our daily lives we

never seem to be able to

add up our own personal

strange geometries.

Morpheus in the Underground

It was our eternal foursome,
Orpheus and Bacchus leading
Aphrodite astray, all ending the night in
my encompassing arms, the
arms of Morpheus, but there are no
moans and sighs now when
morphine has stolen my
name and purpose.

I see those three sometimes
across a crowded bar, still
cavorting but with no need of me,
so I make my excuses, walk the waterfront
seeking out the homeless for whom
sleep is like a gratuity, rare and
grudgingly given.

I find them wherever the
wind can’t get, unless it is
particularly playful, on thin cardboard,
wrapped in whatever they own,
hidden beneath the great buildings in which
they are bemoaned, sometimes drunk in the
shadow of sobriety.

I try to give them my gift but some
resist, their feral dogs snarling as they
twitch and fit; some squadies salute,
caught between squadron and squalor; some
sigh and grasp my hand; one
sweet, sad girl reminds me of
Aphrodite, no doubt just then
tripping, giggling from some club.

And on the coldest nights, when even
my breath is opaque, I know my
gift deals death, my hold
shuddering with the freight of
another soul, my arms full of the
world where Morpheus and
morphine must co-exist
uneasily.

Head Office

My door is always open, and within

whatever your heart pours will

slough like slurry inside my head, but

those that put me in this

snug, sunny office, told me to

keep the door open, to

listen with sympathy and

report back will surely say no, so

my door is always open, my

office ever empty.

Infernal Engines

My mistress will not be requited,

burning past deeds like

Papal Bulls to heat the

engine of her distemper, the

acrid smoke choking the now and

obscuring the future where

sunset so soon follows sunrise.

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