The tattered,
ragged elements
are recombined
to form
the latest
version of
‘a life’.
The risks,
dangers, lies,
once taken,
run, and
violin’d, no
longer hold
their jaded
nerve-thin
dazzle. No
longer creep
from slow
romantic thrill
to drown
and soothe
the self-
promoting martyr.
Nature’s self-adoration
is grisly
beyond words.
Where water
whispers in
deep sleep,
and fascination
and fear
stir shadows
of uneasy
beauty, look
up to
see a
trap of
small winds,
frantic above
the jade-
clouded hills,
lidded with
a light
green sky.
Secret pride
too cowardly,
devious, and
cruel to
chance a
solo casket,
stoned round
a word,
a crippled,
honest word.
Much easier
to go
on lying
through his
teeth, stranded
out of
consolation, but
admired, feared,
detested, watched.
-Napoleonic bastard!
Hissed from
shadows as
he passed.
In a
small temple
of white
stone, the
wind flakes
down fresh
ruins every
day. Those
angels returning
to be
slain find
their would-be
killers fast
asleep. A
simpering goat-
god, chiseled
on the
wall, aims
toward the
absent altar
a phallic
bazooka, something
to make
the young
blue-eyes laugh.
The alley,
famous for
perversions, is
dank with
thick neglect.
The coins,
spit, and
juices, once-
exchanged, have
sprung a
crop of
silence. And
those conceived
in its
imperial past,
return only
once, to
add their
leaden rings
to the
rusting chain
of sorrow.
Torch-tongued empire’s
beastwarm ark
of slaves.
Through chopped
and blue-black
waters it
tilts in
wooden anguish.
Storm-wind groans
the wide
ribs, plucks
the mast
down and
plants it
on an
underwater cliff,
midway the
dark hollows,
the rape-
lightning of
the sky.
A fleur
de lis
now grieves
the compass
point, a
trail of
ink drops
doubling the
drowned souls.
The passing
year spikes
with anniversaries,
each one
as painful
as that
original loss.
Faith tears
out his
heart and
ashes mingle.
He gropes
the half-lit
shadows, while
the far
side flames
with the
blue mercurial
shift of
a disdainful
eye. Tristia,
the black
waters foaming
under mountains.
Something disproves
nothing and
nothing resides
upon its
perfect throne,
risen above
agnostic weather,
nihilist climate.
Cats alone
are worthy
of love.
And least
forgiving, frozen
in cautious
wonder at
the gross
repetition of
what their
subjects have
gone and
done. Animals
attend, perform
in rituals
the meanings
of, come
down to
blood, smoking
on stone.
Christ the
vampired lamb,
Baal and
his abyss-
chuted babies,
Kali going
down to
feast, eyes
wild in
the vapid,
painted face,
chisel-teeth
tendriled with
an orgy
of entrails.
Through foliage
and fog
the pretty
boy staggers,
his head
bowed down
beneath a
crown of
antlers, his
ankles striped
by uncollared
bitches, panting
after blood.
How often,
low-key
and fantastic,
did he
gladly tug
the chain,
albinoed, reclusive,
and haul
into the
light another’s
private shames?
That glass,
however sweetly
drained, was
always his
to drink
and deeply.
The shriveled
elements, set
drying in
the sun
commend him,
condemn him
with their
commendations and
gently, in
their shrunken
saintly way
will not
be fouled
or spurned.
He must
watch them
always, in
their ever-death,
silently learn,
in silence
implore, and
through no
sophist maiming
of the
alphabet, nurse
them back
to roaring
catastrophic life.
‘Marry me’,
‘stay away’
and all
the great
fissures greet
and join,
surround and
become the
transformed world.
Toward the
end of
an afternoon,
on a
balcony above
the sea,
she looks
up from
her lap
and sees
him walking
towards her.
For a
moment what
they see
is the
same. Dark
silhouette against
seasick white:
a halved
beauty, the
clipped brocade
of desolate
time. Where
molested wrens
inaugurate their
fratricidal song,
the sun
flounders in
the carp-
fat lake,
appeasing royal
swimmers with
its failing
warmth. Let
us adore
you, imaginary
chambermaid. The
miniaturist’s art
geared to
a thumbscrew
neurosis of
raging finesse.
The longhaired
devils balance
on the
Galician plain,
to mock
the off-key
squalling of
the wounded
bells. The
closed parenthesis
bleeds and
burns at
its burst
edges, till
a thin
discharge of
stars hisses
the holy
fires out.
Wondering aloud
how like
a virgin
with a
rabbit’s foot
at the
unlucky sack
of Rome.