Friday, 25 November 2016

Brian Wilson and the Stranger

God Only Knows battles idle chatter,
steamy windows and steamy china cups
as damp raincoats clutter flaking windowsills,
and though he knows that he should focus
on the plot that is being dictated to him
by the seemingly omniscient narrator
he can't help but get drawn into the words
that resonate with his morose soul,
looking blankly at the hot tar
that swirls around in his clammy hands,
avoiding, above all else, those searchlight eyes.

He thinks about the end;
how the year has provided proof that the future
seems almost completely bleak
-though life would still go on believe me-
there is too much malice, egocentrism and hyperbole,
not enough verisimilitude, hope and identity.
Without that glimmer of purpose
that had illuminated his chambers for so long; well...
-what good would livin' do me?-
he'd almost prefer the prospect of uncertainty
than the certain desolation that awaits us all.

He stands up, cutting the chapter short.
Cold to the world, he makes for the door,
resolute in his plunge.
And a stranger holds the door open,
motioning to allow him through.

His icy heart thaws out
and the contempt that had encased his heart melts away
[proof for global warming, Mr. Trump, he thinks bitterly]
as his darkness is replaced by
an intense admiration for the potential of mankind.
-God only knows what I'd be without you-

Wednesday, 9 November 2016

X Axis

Each year pulls me further to the left,
and I wonder if my standpoint
is an x-axis
and that I am therefore
growing more and more negative
or that it is in fact spherical
and I will come full circle.

Thursday, 3 November 2016

Pieces of Autumn

A leaf glides on the water,
and ripples disperse around it;
Crossing over one another as the tree's
lachrymose with the lake, dirty halos
crowning these dead pieces of Autumn.

Passing under the bellies of mallards and Canadian geese,
unmoved and uncaring of the water's caress,
they stretched out like wings to whisper against
the nests of reeds and wrappers stood on the banks.

I wonder where my ripples would reach
tonight, if I was to die and leave.
The world would turn no slower
and the sun would shine no darker.
I'll pass under the bellies of ducks
an unheard voice, a disregarded ripple


Enfolding my breath
into subtle shapes, I cherish
watching them float away silently
as if coerced by a gentle magnetism
into unknown and unseen—the inexplicable—

And this existence we suffer is unpredictable
how could we act with pragmatism
while cascading down violently
into the earth we perish
enfolded in death.


I walked heady into the sweet,
damp night, however caught I was in its

The dog across the street whined for me, impetuous, drummed
my porous skin into air,
like a mother praying for their child, making 
me alive again,

Sunspots blossomed over the fullness of night, and 
I curled, ashamed, inside 
their morning light.