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
I can only approach you
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 …
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! …
this place feels different… the light comes through the same old windows; the same shadows creeping through the day the …
how difficult! to be blameless, once again
a rough finger lightly traces the curve from neck to shoulder— a bird flutters from within!