The summer ends

endless blue
beyond these eyes
the light is endless blue

endless gold
beyond this skin
the heat is endless gold

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All these lies

All art’s a lie
—the truth is far more terrible
than any tragedy or horror
to ever be performed before us.

Art is that polished shield
through which Perseus
viewed Medusa
to avoid her petrifying gaze…

before lopping off her head
for sport.

I can only approach you
through my art…

this poem is my polished shield
and you are my Medusa,
though I would never dare attack you—
just gaze in woe upon your beauty,
knowing I can never have you.

But even this is not true:
the truth is far more terrible
to behold.

The truth is bleak; devoid of imagery,
and you do not look in my direction.

For my next trick…

my heart is a ventriloquist…
“I love you!”
thrown over a shoulder
“excuse me?”
I approach to clarify…
a face turns back,
all horrified,
eyes wide, recoiling…
“I love you!”
heard again
from over there…
I spin! this time
a figure turns
to hold me, sobbing;
her heart is into magic, too
—an escape artist!
presenting its most daring stunt!
iron chains, a thousand locks
in shark-infested waters!
gasp!

Door to door

carrying this corpse around, door to door
people paint it different colours;
decorate it the best they can
—let’s celebrate!
it’s quite a spectacle after all