Thursday, February 7, 2013



Unlikeliest of inclinations. Poetic madness
in the face of common sensical catastrophe.
I’m writing this for no one’s sake, not even
my own, a gust of stars in a back alley,
vertiginous dust devils of skirling snow
nipping at my winged heels like frost-bite.

Routinely annihilated at the crossroads
of celestial equators intersecting skewed ecliptics,
the surrealistic mystic in me dances in protest
at the nave of a jinxed prayer wheel
mistakenly enlightened by a yellow daffodil.
I could have been a lightning rod. I could have been
a weathervane, a sundial, an astrolabe , an astronaut,
an astronomer measuring the eyelashes of the stars
in a spectrographic analysis of the tree rings
in the heartwood of the light. As it happens

I’m squatting in the thirteenth house of the zodiac
dodging wrecking balls like a punchy boxer
whose sea legs keep being swept out from under him
by black ice that wants him to take the fall.
Adjust according to circumstances laying bets off
against the smart money I won’t make it
out of this coma to show up for the next round.

If so, I want my coffin to be a cabal
of underground resistance to the death of me.
I want to thrust my clenched fist through the duff
of everything that’s ever unfeathered me in life
like a mushroom in a sacred grove of black swans
waiting for the plumage of new moons to break
into a flightfeather of white light that isn’t mocked
by pink-eyed albino crows driving the fire
of foxes into deep snow to peck their eyes out
like militant evangelists of the colour-blind.

One moment I’m riding Pegasus bareback
with Deneb and Albireo spurring me on
to greater heights than I’ve ever soared before
and the next I’m devoted to this discipline
of turning my insides out lyrically like a pinata
hanging like a medicine bag from a black walnut tree,
bleeding siloes of Virgoan starwheat out of the wound
of a lunar bull Mithras Tauroctonus is sacrificing
like a cornucopia for waiting scorpions, dogs, and snakes
whose symbology is lost upon me like the arcane taste
of alien sensibilities who don’t speak
the same dream grammar I do without an accent.

No end of the doors or the million ways
you have of saying nothing when you approach
your folly like a priest instead of a sacred clown
blowing the pollen of mountain flowers
like gold dust from the palm of your hand,
or gusts of stars roosting in your eyebrows
like chalk starmaps ageing at a blackboard.

I see you trying on lives like different meanings
to pre-determine what pleases the mirrors best,
as if you didn’t so much express as calibrate
what moves you most like the tantric pique
of a yogic paperclip disguised as a praying mantis.
There’s no conviction to your absurdity
so your peacocks lack the courage to sing.
Your lions roar, but the victory goes to the blackflies.
Are you still hunting pygmies with harpoons?




Peace in the sadness that always overtakes me
this time of night. Distance and time in the silence.
The darkness breathes subliminal fragrances of the past.
Intensities relax and grow expansively immense.
The stars look down on my eccentric solitude
and deepen my emptiness with a strange longing
to shine with the same cold fury of creative turmoil
their unattainable radiance has always inspired in me.

It may well be no small thing to counterpoint
the beauty of their brilliance with my paltry daub
of mortal starmud whose every aspiration ends
in the expertise of an apostate clown trying
to embody the first principles of his sacred folly
without breaking into tears of face paint as if
I were talking to dream figures in my sleep
while I was still awake, and inseparable as I am
from the stars down here by the river where the town
doesn’t weed the stray whispers out of the light,
none of us can explain the oddity of our presence
in the midst of each other like psychic phenomena.

And it isn’t likely I’ll know before I die
whether I’ve wasted my life and theirs or not.
I wonder if Jupiter ever feels like a loser
for letting the sun down like a brown star
that didn’t quite reach critical mass
to shine as a binary companion at the dance
instead of sitting it out on the periphery
like a wallflower in perpetual bud too shy to be asked.
So my mind, as old as I can remember, has
been allegorizing the abyss with surrealistic romantic facts
to reach out like a bridge across the mirage
of a blackwater mindstream in a desert of stars
as if there were someone to relate to
in the clear light of the void less impersonal
than the Planck lengths of speculative graffiti
trying to attribute a narrative theme to chaos
I could humanize like a candle in a lonely room.

Idle ruminations of a restless night owl
with blood on its talons like the last crescent
of the waning moon roosting in the leper colonies
of the inundated birch groves on the far bank.
Most of my life it’s been an excruciating labour of love
to bind the world to me in a collagen of metaphors
that nucleates my cells and atoms with mythologems
of the multiverse in the heartwood of every one of them.

I’ve even come to appreciate the quantum entanglements
of delusion and enlightenment as complementary opposites
that have engendered my oxymoronic awareness
of their coincident contradictories of inharmonious synchronicity
and acted out the crazy wisdom of the fool accordingly.

A liberated discipline of free association
I keep rolling my prophetic skulls like dice
against the odds of my meteoric amino acids
ever having tallowed me like flesh around
the wick of my spine mining liquid nanodiamonds
out of the ore of these spent match heads in Antarctica.

I paint my interior dialogue with the cosmos
in vivid vowels but the consonants still count
as earth colours I can rely on to ground the effect
of lightning rooting in the wetlands of my starmud.

Creatures rise out of the dark lagoon like breaching trees
and I’m subsumed in these visions of their passing away
as if there were nothing more noteworthy about evolution
than someone realigning their body with the angle
of what they’re adjusting to in their sleep.
What random act of inconsequence dreams of us
when we’re not there to second guess the outcome?

Colloquies of madness, poetic cosmologies
extrapolated from supra-dimensional improbabilities,
I’m still amorphous enough to accept the world
on its own terms as if it had all been created anonymously
to intrigue the lunatics who focus on it as if
it meant something as significant as music
to the incoherent lyrics of their longing to hear
a voice answer back that isn’t the echo of their own
in this delirium of mystery where the nightbirds sing
simply because the stars are there to inspire them
and Sisyphean dung beetles navigate their stones up the hill
like a solar system by the spectral radiance of the Milky Way.