Circles

Circles

There are degrees of nearness
the sun no nearer to you
than I

or to them,

only the few feel the equatorial belt snap lashing;
their dry drought mouths, felt life more true than you- maybe,

because death was alway knocking on their door sardonically-
we only implore it's light to rinse upon us, lathe us-

This discomfort we feel, this is truth, no one said it was all pleasantries-
we take it into our souls, as captured illumination

star pendant chest
while the others shudder to think-

and hide in cool blue tourmaline waters pooling-
we are more creative and inventive than they-

we use it's heat like warming stones for our breaking backs, we believe-
drink in its fire as sustenance; to water down fear.

Bring to our cheeks-
and citrine rings into our blue eyes-

eat the peach fruits of it's labours-
the delicate wombs of earth

where you and I
are nothing less

than egging notions
of rebirth

processional, acrid, saffron tulip face-
bows to it's end, with one last sun dance, one last show-

as it's scent memory lifts to trade form, with another life, called death;

under the moons'
and suns'

constant

Continuum
of escape and chase.

Cold Coagulation

Cold Coagulation

These veins
extend far beyond body-

they're road maps,
blood driven away-

intersection
fourways

meets organ

then drives away-

red poppy field- on either side,
full of fiery expression,

flutters up
starburst of yolky red life-

spark cast off the egg-
true pain, true glory-

created new scarlet webs,
reaching with a separate rhythmic beat.
Rhythmic intent.

Palpitation is it's farewell ode-

lead to where the road is an intangibly long
and straight vessel

braving the cold coagulations in time to come,
reaching to world end to taste absolutions fruit punch-

to pass through a time change;
a border end,

currency exchange-

sheafed off stratum,
a date stamped booklet, passport of sorts,

driving off
to map another land
within it's fast dying

ruby arterial sojourn~

we could fill the sea

with the
spilled blood

of man and animal.

Dead Poets

Dead Poets



You say you're bored,
well let me lick the fingertips

of the hand
flipping the pages of life-

to ensure there is nothing missed
pages not skipped.

For see-
Souls play hide and seek in the pages with corners left unlicked.

i am bound with hope-
in a country less a border

less a land, a petty government or gravity held atmosphere.

They all idle
in continuance of storylines,

one limit per body-
take a number,

a bridge to wear upon your back,
barcoded muse-

teacher,
hooker of thought creation;

The big bang that started it all
between forefinger and thumb.

screaming child
ink splatter of first word
from new pen.

On a shelf you wait
to be fingered by an unknowing new poet

a hundred years that precede you-
you hope for this,

an immortality of sorts-
Our books-

vined with passionate green like sticky new leaf bud-
careful collection of cryptic content

full of half truths
of yester

written for tomorrows';

Still creating more wholesome truth than out there in the so called real world-
poetry documented history best

some think-

documented how the history felt
about it,

and percieved it's era's.

hanging faces of flowers;
hung in noose by the hands of time.

The hands and legs,
and skulls,
and lips-
and spines and hips

that construct darkness and light- good and bad-
peace and ignorance

this shelled caravan of man;
all look essentially the same as one another once skinned and honed of flesh,

but by then it's too late for
taksey backsey's, isn't it?

Wisdoms' parting rubbish-

long belt snapped of timeline.

Nothingness is always-
unsure of worldly intent;

firm between the bridges
interwined thinking minds mingle and traverse

ink
and tree

sexed in a society too quick to see-
Sheafed supersession.

They're
too quick to be foolish

too quick to know better
too smart and to all knowing to need anymore knowledge-

Books are burnt moth wings
now,

with these dead intentions of ours
that are forging through the forgotton.

flipped past- pages with gilded edges
enticing no one.

They are too quick;
to slow

too high to walk on sky;
with the electric minds in dreams from yester-eve

too vast to tread man made time
with eyes looking rolled backward into mirror mind,

too in love with falsity
to part seas with the inner voices' pure kiss.

And too foolish to extinguish the white flames
of flowering

power, fear, vanity and greed-
diseased blooms

illness
engulfing these pages

damaged- burned to ash;
renanimated

and re-written,
poets will always be

alive.

Eternal Autumn Within, "What it means to me"

I fall in love with the spark of a write- cast off the pen of thought, of the moment, I live in it, a sort of death or letting go must occur for me to move on to the next piece~ CVA

9 Billion Scales Out of Whack

In response of reading "Infection" By Joseph Jengehino


9 Billion Scales Out of Whack



You and I are the same,
we rot at about the same rate,

fruit of another tree,
from another country-

air more or less salty
preserves one longer than the other maybe?

Brilliant discourse can cure ailment
mind over matter and all that,

can create worlds beyond bordered countries
bridges between genders

break language and cultural barriers alike-
because we are, the equality;

9 billion some odd scales out of whack,
that is all,

that the few wise ones
try to help balance.

sunshine in place of moonshine-
rainwater in place of drought.

I tell myself, to not let the world in too much-
to not give alot, only take a little

to keep the tent doors mostly shut
so as to keep the saharan sandstorm
from flurrying in,

from blinding me,
drowning me in tiny rocks~

Earth filling lungs
early grave that summons me

to wake up,
be reborn

and walk to you,
and others like you

for the answers.

It was written

It was written


Because with us,
we have fire,

eternally licked by air-
there will be time enough

I promise you-

In the face of metallic storms unknown ahead-
lest we forget to drop our sail,

we shall remain on this magnetic path of ours-
not tipped under salt to drown, a thirsting death-

no poetic irony etched regrets-
no paper blurr of inked thoughts lost under water-

We have calligraphy, like diamond-
see,

can't you see what we have?
Universal kiss to the forehead of thought-

Don't ever lose sight of our soul grail.
We have verses that curve off into a nowhere
so grande;

Countries will bow to your pen one day, I'm sure-
maybe long after you're gone?

skies will weep acidic for your words
though you may not notice while you're here,

the rose's blushing while you walk past-

I will always slow enough to watch-
our kingdom grow-

our
impromptu minds

travelling an itinerary
thorned and cold; leading up to infinity clouds-

through the nebulous
cosmos

because we dared to write in fear filled emptiness-
in light too bright, and darkness absolute,
it was written.

Rosettes

Rosettes

I read a book yester-
transfixed

in my cold hard mull,

Sick lungs filling-

my frosted eyelashes, Now, double vision-
see what cannot be seen by common eyes

under microscope
There is
a
world,

a winter wonderland
complexand perlexing.

So small-
I wanted to know more.

Understand even a little,
of this deft transparent fragility.
Snow
ice crystals
so many forms

artistic genius of the cloud o'erhead
I can't begin to fathom-

hexagonical prisms,
light trapping, glinting- tinging like music-

pinging off their walls
as they twinkle through wind song

to silenced mounds.

stellar dendrites-
falling stars~

kiss of ivory angel lips,
as they hit your cheek-

Needles of ice-
I could shoot up your beauty with,

trade red blood for blue

cold life felt.

Bullet Rosette
reigning gun fire

from white and blue
sub degrees

ice like faceted diamond-
carved by none

into this unperceivable perfection.

Even the so called irregular crystals
are magestic-

are
fine abstract.

I photographed frost,
trapped on window pane,

a convict.

it was gold lit from firing pillar candles behind-
slow sexed silhouettes, nocturnal-

the seed planted in me
that started it all.

I dream here,
not of sunshine after rainfall,

not of the ensuing spectrum-
but

of
Ice Halo's

frozen vapours
encircling
sky

port holes
knife cut
circles

cutting the fruit of mind

to the expanse of the universal-

reverse osmosis
froze
mid
air.

cut whole.

Gone Again

Gone Again

You never came,
again.

that is all then?

Mountain views
deaf sight
muted discord
absent silence
followed by
another hundred
more silences
this punishment
more alone
now
than ever before-
mud on my face
backward strut
powder-blue moon-dance.
blank lyrics
dyslexic chorus
caustic
lackluster
affect,
unstitched soul,
water leaking out
green spray
hysteria
needs mediation-
I do
excuse filled horizon
hoped for endless sky-
Eyes shut
while awake
I wanted to see only
how it should be
beyond blue yonder,
happily ever after
in concrete towered prose-
please excuse me,
and this
puppet show of hearts
strings of fear
that won't
be cut
I forgot
to forget you-

why?.

Last Iliad; Last Rant

Last Iliad; Last Rant

If you're there?
Disregard my rant,

If you're not;
Allow me release,

for you aren't here to cushion your ears anyways-

{{plugging canal while tonguing a childish ode such as lalalalalallala~
I believe you must know the one-you have sisters, and must have driven on roadtrips as a child right?}}

so,
seeing as I am here, alone,

yet again,
allow me rant.

You've left me again,
yes- all, (please hold your applaus, your boo's too)

that final left after the last right;
Was taken.

That same old sad story of one bereft left behind
while the other has gone-

rides off into warm banana yellow sunshine-
on donkeys, camels, or is it horses back? Or no-
he flew away on a jet plane, that was it!

While I'm left walking the arching rusted lines of traintracks,
sitting in 24 hr. laundromats-

watching time stand still, jump back, skip forward, hopscotch
of universal feat,

rainbow numbers & chalk-lines.

Watching clean wet clothes of an unknown life
(mine washed gone)

tumble dry all night long,
in a vortex of hot and cold

when once they're dry- a stranger folds them for me-
stacked neat,

for two dollars more. I tip her ten.
I wear the clothes that shrunk two sizes small vertically,
and stretched two sizes too big horizontally-

This scent is not me,
tide is no life- not real,

just artificially created to make us feel fresh and soft and clean,
and civilized,

but are we really, or is that just the tide?

Dream vision, I fall asleep on lumpy broken held together with duct tape chair-
white walled bones-

inside the whale that ate me whole.
cold shuffle of rubbery flesh-

that tastes my sour bitter sweet life-
what a meal of contradictory flavour I am.

How tackily-
over -done.

I am filleted,
in straight lines,
against my grain;

To keep me intact,
Held together,
long enough to devour.

My dreams are the grissle,
that the life of the one thing bigger than I-
ate and spat out.

I ate the peach,
once I was free,
(after this death)

and it did not taste so sweet,
after being eaten by the whale in me,

it's golden nectar, it's fuzzy globe-

was the one thing I craved while imprisoned on that chair,
now is half rot-

waited too long-
in clothes too big-
too small,

on a rusty train track to nowhere,
that started here,
and ended there,
where- the midpoint was-
nowhere.

I am the one thing bigger than me,
that I ate up and spat out,

I know now.

You are the one thing real, that I forgot to forget.
That cannot be found,

as I am bound,
wound round and round

(dead end road- with sarcastic road signs like cemetary lane -dead end written in yellow)

claim of infinity by pen and by pad my childlike cape made of pajama pants,
by friends that I thought I had,

a cold shoulder society that shames me,
a false marriage that blames me,

and a love that bled me red;

And may very well have left me now,
for dead-

like a summer rose afflicted by the fall,
but I may be,

soon returning-
ressurected, alone in the snow.

So now you know-
you now,
can just go on,
and go-

for see
I'll soon forget...

That's a lie,
a bluff-

no I won't.

But see
you-

will soon have forgot-
Eyes closed tight,

I will be the snow
muting surround you-

a de ja vou,
a semblance of a strange golden world-

make believe, pastel, oil paint, charcoal, crayon
and spray-

over this canvas,
sky high

that was once ours-

now white washed cracked
cold.

Cuss you

Cuss you


Rather~
Fuck you

{let's not be polite}

And this punishing silence
you bequeath to me,

full bouquets of silent faces
looking up
looking down,

so beautiful they are
with their hues,

pomegranate red-
gooseberry yellow, squid ink violet-
blue,

petals I want to pinch
to see if they're alive, really that vibrant-
and of course I do- only to kill them with my touch, they transpire.

Why are things always so comparable, why are we so astute?!!
Why play these games of ours?

How dare you look at me that way-with those eyes,
those eyes of yours

like spun worlds orbitting what?
Who knows?

those untelling eyes,
that frighten me so-

with temples of colour
gaseous array of heat of cold of
poison

of life absolute.
Of love like no other-

How dare you see through me,
and my senseless-

full sensed
plight

this pointless
poignant life,

that seems to be over just as soon as it starts-
we're on a death valley
itinerary

freefalling from birth canal
to grave

grasping at roots as we fall there-
hole takes us all-

fed to roots,
that make pith, and
bloom.

but who will remember-
I cussed you one last time!

Let it be known!

This
that
which we are
we were
when we expire

to wherever we go-
I whole heartedly fire!!!

full heartedly fallen
like cussed out angels
under poetic guise-

stripped of all hopes for normalcy-

with dirt in our mouths;

And philosophy and star stuff in our bones.

40 Stories

40 Stories

It doesn’t matter anymore,
all that other bullshit;
Look down there from the 40th floor

gridlines, gridded paper, squared off
little ink blots-

The frantic ants below, all aglow-
Red and white just beads of light
Imitating life.

Lined in deadlocked rows,
Rush hour, hands to the sky-
Hailing

Fate, a god?
A cab?

All of the above?

Who knows why?
No cabby stops, they pass you by in judgment, careful selection-
Who makes it home?

Life consists of selection process one after another, right down to the beginning- fertilization-
egg and the sperm, who wins, the select one plus one.

Only the lucky will know, the one with safe looking eyes, and nice granola clothes and the one with skin tone just so-

The others walk head high- through the rain to the subway train,
knowing why-

Chance it, with strangers, sardonically feigned.


Yellow and black taxi cabs like citrine gems- the royalty on these roads!

Or like those coloured plastic beads from childhood your sisters used to string, made you wear, friendship bracelets- with yellow and black strung out-

A small bold circle, just like you.

The sky scraper with office of four glass walls-
That’s your other home, glass like blue iceberg from the arctic-
You lied

You said you couldn’t fly-
Walk on air-

But there you are
just look at you now-
Way the fuck up there

40 stories high!

40 stories?
Who came up with stories as a means to describe height anyways?

I suppose it seems fitting, if you give it much thought,
How many stories do you think there are in a square meter of people stacked up-
One cubicle of life, more, one floor?



How many pages could they fill?
Bound- pound for pound,
ounce for ounce,

ink, blood and water-

you're king of the world way the fuck up there!
40 stories, squared off is what?
Math was never my niche,

nevermind, you already know- you're a god (calculator at hand)

you could start a kingdom, ruler of worlds
of glass and of concrete

I could make you a crown,
of gridded paper-

paper clips for jewels,
as you walk on air,


fly

Sprain

Sprain


Exoskeleton of silver frost
pigment of longing

metallic ornament
of paramour

lashes now iced branches
forking light-

liplined blue blood shoreline- where his boat docks, comes and goes-

he skims

round her warm dusty rose
mouth

parted slight-
her wide fruit mouth,

hopefilled utterance-

Black cherry-

his aftertaste acrid on her tongue;
Long after he's gone.

She turns to words of others to be taught patience,
to cure her unfilled-vacancy when left-
to her own devices, as they say.

Motel light flashing, cheap, winking, men chase after her- with no worth,
she closes her eyes tight, pretends she's some other place.

Swears by existentialism, and all the rest-
most everything holds a truth when glanced at right-

discovers common ground laced in other perspectives-
Loves to live in another's eyes- craves flight-though, may never get there.

In his eyes
clairyoance is unbreakable
impossibly strong like diamond.

Human mind like sky
broken
set
fallen
risen
always cycling, a perfect circle-

Mind's colour palet changes from day to day-
never painted the same twice-

There is no possible duplicity in mind-
we're more original than we think,
more lucky

than imaginable.

She's always falling, learning, pulling splinters from her knees
bleeds to earth, feels the pain-

of touching soft skin hard-
to frozen winter loam,

is grateful, reminds her she is- yes, indeed alive still-
green moss- to cushion afterward.

She never cries for fear, for hatred or for heart-
she,

rejoices instead.

Surround her here-
Blunt colour against the niveous spraining-
straining
in that wood,

Red holly berries.
Wreath of the woods-

crowns of the pure hearted children that play there-

Canopies of woven bramble cover-
like tunnel
to another place

The only thing creeping in
are her poinsetta petals, (or are they) leaves like brick-

tasting the sprain
of dream.

Cupid

Cupid

Please wait for me,
I am on the run in a paralell-

this day,
give me an hour or two to return-
please don't leave me,

not naught again,
please let live-
not wither.

everything carries me to you-
I am impalpable ash caught in a cloud,

I am specs of ash reflecting light from your sun-
in envy of life in it's purest state;

I'll take what I can get of you,
but will always hope for more.

Oh, how I yearn for a reacha touch
of calligraphy always from those Italian hands of yours

arched fingers like bow and arrow
from cupid,

that strikes with the force of shifting earth
to my soul

my heart.

Plum Tree

Plum Tree


My life
Demeaned by others’ worldly materialism, (leaking into my mind-)
By unkept currency-

Though, I’m not so sure that my shortfalls are
A mistake

Like I am certain that lives lead solely in pursuit of that life
Are-

Please stop telling me what you have; what I don’t.
Your wealth is not the same as mine, let’s not compare
Full pockets to empty pockets

Mine are empty for they leave more room for cold hands to warm, while getting lost on frosted forest trails-
more room for pen and for pad.
Some see more worth in
Blossoming tree full of petals and foliage; to autumn tree skeletons’
You are not so wise as to claim the worth of either tree, nor the purpose or beauty of either tree; they are of equal worth with separate circumstance.

I know I am homeless, now without a heart-
Sitting below a plum tree devouring plum hearts in wake of mine gone, though through consumption there is no replacing such a loss,

I can eat and eat and eat the hearts off tree boughs, seed swallowed whole hoping for new roots to grow from me, into a new life-

Similar in look and delicate feel, but no amount of nourishing sustenance will suffice a void like this left by him.

I know to you
I may seem homeless now
With no roof to fly to

But I can’t buy another and claim it falsely for my own home,
I can’t barter soul for equity.

Vetivert

Vetivert



Needs him near,
to stave off these thoughts of naught-

these thoughts of all
entirety.

Surround us
are lovely

bloodfilled hearts,
sonnets-

full with ardour-
gift wrapped

under long black trench coats,
platinum cuff links,

brass buttons
and linked pearls and gold-

are the satin ribbons
and bows

unwrapped,
bare pear flesh devoured

in warm fired room
beside

feathered frosty
windowpane.

Men with coal hearts
look into the windows
of jewellers,

displays of bound-
garnets, amethyst,

rubies, canary,
emerald-

secretly
pine for their hues.

Rumination of many minds'
weighing heavily in these leafless trees.

Simple minded prayers, thoughts, well wishes,
ill wishes, stresses, grief, worries, cynicisms,
so on and so on-

colour gamut of our world.

~feel the sand hit my lobe
when I lift the peachy sea shell to ear-

the longing to be taken away,
to hear oceans hissing from across the globe- call to me,

funneled now-
into canal~

to mind,
subconcious,

imagination,
perceived reality;

reminding me of this metonymy
of ecstatic life-

I drink water from the cup of blood,
of mud, from being, from earth;

to become, blood, mud, earth
and water.

I implore to be taken away-
a mythical hitchhiker on the backs of blue whales

then,
a tidal being-
a sea thing,

swept into the sticky spring green weeds-
a vetivert root

tossed over the capacious sea
from tofino's surf

to Japan, Alaska, Russia,
washed ashore-

drowned-alive
a still-born
taking first breath

in the after world.

Fairytale love, I wish for-
some foreign ice prince,

ever so-
unlikely preserved;

my countenance blank-
washed,

my roots of vanilla and amber-
acrid-

over abyss, salt. ice,
and slow-

death.

Paper Bag Princess

Paper Bag Princess



Smog filled imagination;
Oil slick lips-

She thought she was alone.

Charcoal eyes,
Others spume their sociological judgment.

Polluted tongue-
Tasting pure words from past eras; how unworthy of her.

She poured rainbows’ of calligraphy onto him, the only one that sees her-
A parallel from another place, she may never meet.

That she left behind for sum days and hours-
while she sorted herself, straightened out her insanity into neat tidy
boxes, safely stoed them away with monochromatic labels-

A hope filled paper bag princess she is, though.

Flowers in her hair,

Stolen from pithy stems, near a gutter where it grew
Orange.

Her porcelain lounge legs
Salty- sultry- scathed

By men
She regrets.

But can't escape from-
that prision she made in her mind, is now a foundation of her eventual domise-

Men who made babies with her,
grew light and blood and life from her-

That loved her on their own terms.
Not caring if she did love them too-

The babe is all she has of this paralell world.
One truth against whole oceans of lies.

Living room forts of blankets and cushions,
where they tell stories of fairytales, happily ever after’s-

Where they hide.

Flashlight torch lights their journey; through a world made up.

She sings in the acid rain,
Umbrella transparent

To let in the gray paint her face-

Poems written in the corner
Alleyway’s riddled with filth and urban graffiti

Murmur of stardust over garbage
Most unlikely of places-

Recycled thoughts, cardboard, aluminum, plastic,
we are less original than we all think-

She says-

Right down to our genes
We’re more related- relatable than you all perceive-

Skin blood bone light and
electricity-

Flood Waters

Flood Waters




Went to hike down the trails by the train track-
Flooded out by the lake, by the creek-

My now leech tongue- drained of blood,

For I’m
Boatless,

Nowhere natural to go, to write, without a boat,
We are drifting down currents of uncertainty.


The water was onyx black, reflecting the autumn skeletons, branches sunken
Like the teeth of the dead half buried in loam,

Marbled cobalt-ivory sky above,

And the sun was finally out-
Blaring lemon against the tarry blackness;

Of flood waters
Unreceded,

Black and yellow,
The new Black and white.

I found this zesty, yet strange-
Put me into a daze-

Then I came to this place, to warm my hands-
Warmth to softly bandage,

My cut hands that tainted these blackened clairvoyant
New waters-

Poisoned now by traces of my O negative perfume.

Lucid I sat there, read your words, un natural setting unwelcoming,
Went back to the flood,

Waded into the trails,
With uncertainty below in the under tow that fills my boots now-

With onyx below and yellow above-

was stunned to read your words
that mirrored thoughts unfolding in my mind like photographs
just then.

A Town Called Catatonia

A Town Called Catatonia



Just give it something-
To keep this slanted calligraphy gleaning- always-over~
Angelically- above-


False leather eyelashes and crystal silicone valleys-
Beyond yonder,
& beauty queens;


We’re born in the era of hansoms’
And gaslight.

Turntable- tracks skip our favourite lines,
Play the ones we care less about.


This collective jade soul, over-
Enameled hearts; and
Delineated eyes leave yours and I’s

Minds’ sore,

Spinning fast marigoround-
Is this procession.

Dead-end roads-
You and I have found ourselves on previously, too many times in false pursuit of a foreign feel of being felt-

Now stark epiphany.

Sky scraped eyes,

Concrete tongue, cracked from continuity of lashes- by
Laws and letdowns; supposed realities, commitments,

And obliged networks we’ve made that bind us with rusted links-
maybe even unto our graves.


Souls that secretly glisten- gilded, unfeigned

Against scarlet smokescreens-
Despite their efforts, lies hold truths.
Yes, yes they do-

But truths never bear lies,
only perceptions-

So-
Give me nothing,
But hope filled fictions (I’ll take what you can spare)

Molted gold feather-
From your wing, dipped in ink-
Writes our story of nothing-everything; known- unknown-


That keeps me dazzled-
Eyes open when closed

Please don’t slap me down dear world;
Please keep my flighted soul asoar-

For-

I’m catatonically glacial- when only here, not there- lost in translation; when between worlds,

Iced over and numb

I could scream
If my frozen voice would allow me release-

Dove under the glasson ice skin over neon novocain lake-
In a town called Catatonia population, nihil.

Unable to break through, when I needed effervescent blue-

Sunk like stone unknown, slate cloud shrouded human being,
Supersession of one life-

When you’re gone, simply just not around.

Lung filled world,
World filled lungs-

Drown me in a love so grand, hysteria maddening ensues-
My own soul can’t even fathom this universal source.

These fractures of thought, splinter my hands;
Can’t contain fluidity of flow this violet eve,

When you’re all that I breathe, and all that my senses perceive,
Sun, world, moon,

The five and the eight,

The universe of heart reaches to the universe of soul-

Kisses lips imperfectly aligned
Created the big bang-

Flowered into this you
N into this-
I.

UnI in Universe

UnI


What is a soulmate?-

This is the one only real
question

that is facetted eternally
with infinite endless answers.

Like a mother and child, the child asks and asks, and the mother
never denies truth.

what if,
you were faced with
light too bright

darkness like abyss
on a raft

in a sea with endless horizon
whichever way you looked to-

in a fiord encompassing-
green depth that never ended-

in a city that towered higher than possible-
to the heavens,

to imagination pure.

in a house with too many mirrors, and no windows- what would you see?

in a world that's long forgotton,
these ancient ways-

what if you were presented with your soul,
and your others'

stripped down to essence
light infront of you,

and her.

Standing in a burned house; The morning after

Standing in a burned house;
the morning after



This place,
Now char

Burnt house,
Bright Ornaments of Christmas

just put up days ago
Bright against the char-

now

Epistilbite,

Gold and silver
trimmed wall mirrors

Cracked china tea cups

Collage of beautiful rubble artwork-
Photographs bubbled and melted-

Float in the flood after the fire
The water-

muddy green,
still clear though-

With ash like pumice,
colour-

Grey skies

Standing there,
transient

Not a dream
Not real,

but something else,
this morning after-

Standing-
At the burnt house.