Etching

Ways I thought were comforting,
Turned opposable truths;
And days I lost while wandering,
Hypothesis turned to proof.

My many mistakes are constant,
My fathers did the same;
We light our candles yearly
Yet never feel a flame.

An etch in time on vinyl,
Assembled rhymes unsaid;
Words my blue revival,
My gothic heart beats red.

Talus

I’m sweeping up your worries
They’re going in to bags,
I walked a week to market
And slept beneath the crags.

I heard that there are traders
Who buy and sell our fears;
They hide behind disguises,
They whisper in our ears.

I’m sweeping up your sorrows,
Flung from a coastal talus;
The market’s shutting down,
Love is now the ballast.

An Exhumation

There were traces of me,
Some burnt vestiges
Found under mulch,
Detritus in strata, then debris.

I didn’t look very much like me,
But the finders were keepers
And they all disagreed.
They could have just left

The stagnant shell of myself
Where I’d slept all those years;
My mouth full of moss, and behind
My green eyes, fern-flooded ears.

After their initial shock
Discovering me in those woods
For a while I wondered
If they could return,

Yet they did, armed with candles
And prayers and books
With scripts I’d unlearned since
There’s nothing to read

With an ego interred.
After they repatriated me
Within the appropriate earth,
All the towns seemed different,

New, not shiny or imbued
With ores, nor for once subdued
By saddening flags and blankets,
Whose seven colours draped

And sometimes secured
Our feelings, through sombre times,
Thankless times, where we found
The end of heaven.

Ancorato

Il mare mi ha interiorizzato;
Proprio come pensavo di essere stato rimosso
Ho ingoiato la sua ubiquità blu.

Questa tristezza incorruttibile,
Anti-materia, causa di elettricità statica,
La mia antitesi innaturale completata,

Lanciò la sua spessa corda dal ponte
E si è ancorata a me.
Mi trovavo su una banchina grigia

E anche se le persone passavano
Tutto quello che potevano vedere era ancora un uomo di riserva,
Prima che si rivolgessero ai caffè.

Tutti i molluschi sono silenziosi
Quando uno scrittore non può guardare i suoi strumenti
Non può guardare alla sua vita abbondante.

Bullet Shell

A sodden scrimshaw soul
Slipped through my ribs.

These ribs like chalk, or lime,
Same age as all time.

Handled me like a concert piece
Without its own brass,

I couldn’t explain
Why I didn’t complain.

There’s no such thing
As dodging a bullet,

There’s no such thing as
Stored in a cloud.

Language is always used
To curate lies to a crowd.

Ansonia’s Song

Are these matters
Commensurate, I really have
Little or frequently no idea.

All I know is relative
Within my idealistic heart,
This desire, wanting you near,

Like a pendulum pulling on
The weights of my attention,
Harmonic oscillations,

I stand in the hallway of my life,
Dust appears in shafts on light
Through a stained glass window

Above a blue door I cannot open,
Doomed to stay motionless
Until I am used for new fires.

Cloud Poem

I caught a glimpse of the lady
I would love eternally,
Retained in the shape of a bather
In a photo reflecting the sea.

The sacred four-horned oxen
Walked on stones in my heart,
I prayed I may evaporate,
And fall into her arms.

As my quiet prayer was calling,
Deathly forests distracted me;
From clouds I started my descent,
Ended in your memory.

In one such forest’s fated clearing
A brook of crystal waters dried,
A spring to feed the falling prayers,
A place of rest for a bride.

The clouds merged in to mountains,
Mountains gave birth to the sea,
If only longer I’d waited,
And brought an end to all misery.

Hair’s Breadth

The evil that people did,
And evil that people still do
Is reason enough why I’ll be returning
In a soul-equipped igloo.

On the backs of whales I’ll hunt
For injustices in the thaw,
My harpoon deeply impaling
The abandonment of law.

I’ll sail across death’s forests,
Hear humpback’s distressed call,
By their skyward fire at night alone,
Warming my hands as I fall.

The moment is my throne allayed
Beyond that icy floe,
Eternity, hair’s breadth away,
Watch me as I go.

The Ironies

Bitter the ironies,
Fuel of my life,
Devourer of time,
A grave for a wife.

Seeds in an apple
Letting trolls down,
I remembered you wearing
Your basque wedding gown.

All memories sealed
In a chest they had drowned,
Deep in sharp oceans,
A long-submerged town;

You can still see some rooftops
When you dive further down;
There’s the church belfry,
Brass bells make no sound.

I cannot choose living
With this charged weighted load,
For as soon as it’s given
I must cross their toll road

To pay with the striking,
The force and the blow,
So I hope you’ll forgive me
If I remain here below.