endless blue beyond these eyes the light is endless blue endless gold beyond this skin the heat is endless gold
All art is a lie. The truth is far more terrible than any tragedy or horror to be performed before us. Art is a polished shield through which Perseus viewed the Medusa to avoid her petrifying gaze... before lopping her head off for sport. I can only approach you through art... this poem is my polished shield and you are my Medusa, though I would never dare attack you— just gaze in woe at your beauty knowing I can never have you. But even this is not true: the truth is far more terrible again. The truth is bleak; devoid of imagery, and you do not look in my direction.
There are thorns all around us, and everything withers and dies. Look! Here it is! It's so red today!
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!… Continue reading For my next trick…
An hour’s break – the dying bumblebee underfoot; as grey as an office worker.
a good thing the self is an illusion, or my self esteem would be in tatters
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
this place feels different... the light comes through the same old windows; the same shadows creeping through the day the yellowed paint clings resolute to walls—the rooms have all found new ways to dream
how difficult! to be blameless, once again
a rough finger lightly traces the curve from neck to shoulder— a bird flutters from within!