BELL-STREWN BRIDGE (Meter, rhythm, and scheme inspired by Poe’s ‘The Bells’)

None shall cross this tolling bridge-
Tainted bridge!
Teasing on the far horizon is salvation’s ridge!
Choir of the seven no-nos
sang attrition to a doze;
they were hitchers of determined thumb
mining ditches for a holy plum.
Now their aptitude is froze.
I’m the sky-high-pie
they alone bit to get by.
Bellies swamped with swagger, they’re now jammed in marshes of guilt,
pools I built, built, built, built,
built, built, built,
‘twixt the bridge and ridge to freeze my fate in guilt.

04 02 15


Engulfed in this egregious sermon of reality
where the call of sleep is sent from mini-skirted bestiality
I sleep seduced, I wake reduced to Minotaur’s appeal
and no razor’s manhunt stands a chance on copping a warm-blooded feel

No recourse in the alcohol, no recourse in the drugs
No fulfillment in sobriety or intervention’s soggy hugs
The case of this default malaise has stumped all inquiries
bent on ascertaining flora from this fauna’s self-indulgent freeze

I’m not happy, I’m not sad
I don’t miss the future that I had
I’m fated to a ramble’s dance
It’s safer than a calculated trance

My lips are burning from the kiss of fiction’s sustenance
Tongue of no saliva, thank you for the words I’m too afraid to mince
Attuned to this egregious sermon of reality
Crumbs of dreams swept off the floor of sleep I feed to moot banality

Felicity is in the cards but I can’t find the deck
If a kiss declines an encore, don’t think I’m too proud to seek a peck
The truth is honourable, yet in fiction I persist
in my mission to retain permission to claim matter from this mist

My potential was a fad
This outcome is all I ever had
I left hypotheses to chance
when I took home a calculated trance

Engulfed in this egregious sermon of reality
I have memorized the platitudes of my humane finality
Intrepidly I bathe in tepid fiction’s sea of shrugs
No recourse in medicinal alcohol or aromatic drugs

The brain evokes a bubbled labyrinth in bare attire
Servant to its swish of chemicals, I tread and breast-stroke in the mire
of whims it propagates and drolly fascinates me with
till I’m sick of its reality and somehow talk it into myth

I know happy, I know sad
Yes this knowledge serves to make me glad
A shame the walls of circumstance
impede it from my calculated trance

05 16 15


Intellectual asylum would appear
to be the remedy for optimal
loquacity miscarried

When the appeal of one’s personality
is measured by the dexterity
of one’s decibels
there ulcerates a retrograde aspiration
to be a rock, to be an island
fortified by the poetry of the ostracized

Owners of the souls so branded
by body language
that an honorable mention
of cultured eccentricity
would be a conspiracy to euphemise
an incongruous presence

To be themselves
is to pry a fissure of contentment
into plains of compromised comportment
and no capacity of sheepish smiles
earns admission to the shelter of frivolity

The con in conversation
disrobes syllabic status like a Trojan Horse
unraveling a spoof of euphony
to decimate at its source
the confidence attained in one’s small talk
on the basis of its evidence in one’s own ear

The cajoling army of loquacity ignites
a brash battalion of belly laughs
like torches for the anarchistic culling
of the unassertive into their cathartic Bastilles
of libraries and coffee houses


One hand fights off the nature
like a mad scientist
One thumb seeks out the tight mouth
instructing with a lisp
I have no feelings in my hand
it was invaded by trust
My conscience sent my friends a proxy
working under code-name Lust
I had to snatch security
from sleeping enemies
I am far too insecure now
to claim friends
A slave to change I’ve been since
I’ve been all alone but happy
Change insinuated there was someone there
with whom to make amends

I now tend to this high pad
like a thane’s pre-kingdom castle
with a gleaming knife and guilty conscience
for all visitors who bring a hassle
My tub’s too small to take a bath
This is no place to lay down still and naked
And those who come in need of cleansing are too late
if all they’ve done to date is fake it
But I myself do nothing free
of order, save to breath the air
An act of conscience of necessity?
It just depends
A twisted feel I need to survey these conditions
and my place within, and while it’s at it
tap the shoulder of the one
with whom to make amends

I call it the hermit’s apartment
Tempt me not with too high an escarpment
for I’m as drawn to gravity as rain
cried from a sky depressed and inclement
or the high priest of hedonists
who hurls at the sun a conscience
that is neither his nor his flock’s alone
but a ball of both stitched together with their sins
And like the priest I must look up
instead of straight ahead
Who knows which one extreme he craves
out of the pair which he attends?
And if his sun does not
incinerate the evidence
and the hermit’s apartment shrinks into a plank
will there be enough time for them to make amends?

The sight that feeds the clean and sober
mind dishes up a dirty world
Sweet marinara, chocolate icing
bubbles into toxin when unfurled
in the wavy borders of the body
Open every orifice as wide as will be spread
It doesn’t matter for the acid will suppress itself
and live in those who stop at wishing they were dead
So do you want a healthy body
or a healthy mind
Think about it; time betrays
an exerciser who pretends
to be fit and be able to exterminate
the devils of contention
making all acquaintances believe as well
as see the gift to make amends

(Another one from my first book, A Waltz Around The Swirls. Stanza two contains some loose references to MacBeth)

02 04 – 09 04 04





they are one

and the same


Just to bemoan

the proximity

of words on paper

to words on a tongue

plants my newborn


on a mirrored podium

of selfishness


I thought I was


routine breath

and token platitudes

in greasy hand-held


But just like holy water

sheds its symbolism

and is sucked back

into nature’s cycle

the ink I warm

and nurse my words

to health with

will bore itself

into the impermanence

of paper or a monitor

and what I said

will shed the hope

it may have carried

at a time of



Lottery tickets

are what I’m writing

as I sit here

with my skull

swimming in a pillow

of utopia

nursing a ruptured


slashed down

in a war of wills

with your sadness


I was humoured

with your happiness once

and fooled tonight

by your sadness


I thank your sadness

for a necessary lesson


Clinging to the same numbers

is a Pollyanna policy


This particular tongue
got (its buds) off on tarot gossip

Inquiring of Ryder:
how do you feel about
the Deviant Moon?

(S)he put up a phalanx of
eight wooden staffs
religiously erect to the green galaxy
like the love seedlings
of snake and ladder

A house fell from the sky
never to entrap a drown
in the bottomless blue rainforest

is enough
to divide or penetrate

(In homage of real time
and the admirable insomnia of sleep
there will be no stated intermission)

Turning to the Deviant Moon
the question followed:
how do you feel about Ryder?

(S)he painted a scene somewhere
between a memory and a model

A virus of asymmetry
ate the purity
out of the real

The gold drink fountain
refused to kneel to the pyramid

Solidarity’s septet
won a mandated early retirement
in a prominent corner

The Deviant Moon artisan
What a ham
The lady is hiding and hanging for show

Whispers whispers
never would a certain tongue tire
of the tang in your silvery saliva
Paint the pentacle a manned frisbee
harvesting the children of a sheathed universe
Be a neon poker
poised to finger the most fantastical
elastic cascade fluids ever knew
Bring the earth and the spice
Bring the planet and the soul
Bring the black paintings
and shapeshifter faces
A querent is going to a picnic
on a plane
Bleed dry your breath
on the parched ear canal to propel

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