A Night of Sulphur
A night of sulphur
in the garden
with winding trees
exquisite breeze
but sulphur ling’ring
in the air
and in the blue heather
I heard
a girl’s voice
clear as the moon
follow me down
she sang, she cried
follow me down
down
down
to the riverside
so I left my bench
and jumped the trail
which
hov’ring on
that perfect
voice
made its way
to southern shores
the voice called on
away, anon
follow me down
it sang, it cried
follow me down
down
down
down to the riverside
and at that river
silent shore
all voices converge
in quiet waves
had it been I
who’d dreamt
that voice,
the last
of fading
childhood
days?
∆ Appeared in FIRE: No. 18 (Oxford, UK)
Everyone becomes a philosopher eventually.
One can’t ‘know’ truth— because just as one is part of all, so ‘reason’ is just a part of ‘intuition.’ Therefore, one must be truth.
But— doesn’t this seem too simple? A metaphorical matter of numbers, quantity. Just become ‘one with all’— and you will be the Truth. Can it be so simple?
And Silent Silent Silent Go
And silent silent silent go
the last footsteps
of falling day
and silent silent silent fall
the glor’ious stars
of our decay
I stood nearby
affixed
in thought
as you peered through
the spying glass
to southern shores
dark blue
beneath
the fields
and rolling
hills of grass
I said to you
my friend
my love
one day these shores
will cease
to be
but you looked on
adrift
in thought
as the waves
rolled forward
silently
∆ Appeared in FIRE: No. 18 (Oxford, UK)
I just found a tiny bug, a baby cockroach, in my friend’s cabinet, and instinctively squashed it with a napkin.
So, too, can someone or something squash me in an instant.
We nestle away in lees of safety, adorn ourselves in houses of comfort, live a grand illusion, when we exist on the flimsiest of foundations, bound to fate and the seemingly blind, indiscriminate will of the universe.
Jazz Wafts
Jazz wafts
through the darkness
of the lake. . .
past hunched trees
and grass
like clumped rice,
tissue-paper clover,
past glazed sand
and gravel
in the road,
forgotten boulders,
past street lamps
and their pale
amber glow.
On a boulder
sits a bottle.
It asks for nothing,
gives nothing in return.
The blank hum of crickets.
“It so happens I am sick of being a man. . .”
I leave the bottle
and walk on,
into the darkness. . .
∆ Appeared in FIRE: No. 14 (Oxford, UK)
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