existential poem

if a poet is created by the act of writing a poem
then does it matter
if the poet rejects his creator?
does the poet then cease to be a poet?

or if only poets valued poetry
then would poetry have no value at all?

children born and raised by illicit vices
sometimes bare the richest fruit as they tear away

so also the poets, borne of the mother muse
fly and dance carelessly into the setting candlelight

effortless movements

i am suspicious of
any signs of effort

by them
i can tell
if you are doubting

the static noise of
calculations
disturbs
the whole whoosh of emotion

but gently take me
through your
effortless movements
in verses

walk amongst
the glass castle
of purest feeling

where a single breath
shatters
that candle flame
at the altar of the heart

premeditated

to premeditate
is to do something before meditating
like putting on a cup of tea
or reading a note to oneself
from six months before
and remembering something forgotten
then deciding to forget it again

doing all these things
and then when we sit down at last
we notice that all the meditation
has already been done for us
by other people
and it is ok just to relax

in embers

an iron green envy
seizes the inside of me

but it is only
a butterfly passing by

like a cat licking milk
i lick the mirror separating us

cold suddenly warm
but i am drinking my own blood

wet tears sprinkle down
from dissolving dreams

the paper devouring words
like a flood over a vagina

i release myself
to the growing tide of clarity

and experience the divorce
of fantasy from reality

igloo

i await news of you
in my igloo
tie my intestines in knots
poke flies in my eyes
vomit convulsively
as if there is nothing else to do

when you write
i hold each letter in my hand
for an hour before i read it
and collapse afterwards
exhausted by the drunk punch
of your mind

later my own words come out
disordered like shrapnel
from the explosion of
my lust
sealed with spit
i thrust them down the letterbox's gob

youth bemusement

the rain sprinkles calmly on a wet wet land
your eyes are mirrors in the midday sun
my body a beach stroked by the tides' hand
the sun is crying on an idiot's corpse at one
the moon is fallen shattered from an empty page
spilling black pitch from its porcelain cage
                                                             igniting my rage

dad

what are you afraid of?
i used to be afraid of monsters
but i'm not anymore
now i'm not afraid of anything

Dad look at the river down there
we're really high
we're on a bridge
there's the river again!
why don't they have lights in tunnels?

are we getting off here?
no?
Good!