The Socialites
Friend or Enemy?The lukewarm perfection of politeness personifiedIn your civil drone,Neutral eyesAnd accomodating overtoneOf meaningless abstraction;You give rise to nothing.Give me a hug or give me the finger. del.icio.us : Poetry
Reality Check
Just because it’s floating In the ether of my eyeDoesn’t negate its bearing Or give it status as a lieJust because it’s burning Deep within my heartDoesn’t mean it’s failing At being really vibrant artOn the contrary darling, there’s nothing you can really seeOr feel, that hasn’t at its beginning its being in the etherOf the eye or the burning of the heart.Yes, everything’s invisible At the very start. del.icio.us : Poetry
The Hunting Lodge
A score or more grinning headsPasted to the wall like so many trophiesEyes rolling in blue despairScratched in the face like jagged pondsHolding fishy thoughts and brackish ideasOf multi-coloured decadence cut to no certain form;But that’s beside the point, please turn to page 3… del.icio.us : Poetry
Everywhere and Everything but Me
(in which the tongue is in the cheek) By the way, I’m the best,Don’t look there–It’s here you should invest. If there’s a problemIt must be you,Fix that and change yourself,I’ll soon shine–as good as new! The blame you’ve namedIs surely misplaced.Challenging me is foolish,Why set yourself up for humiliating disgrace? Don’t forget–I’m the best,Even like this,I’m better than the rest. Wait! Wait! I don’t agree!Perhaps reconsider,If you don’t, you’ll see. del.icio.us : Poetry...
A String of Blood
My heart is racingAround itself in aCircle;Far from the warm wings’ shadow. A stone, some feathers,Perhaps a vague memoryOf the rough-hewn archeWill guide my heartWith a string of bloodOut of the cycle, andBackTo the warm wings’ shadow. del.icio.us : Poetry
drifting
Just in from sipping a cup of steaming chai and letting the cool night breeze caress my face. It’s good to be alive and have a lyric echoing in my soul, for a chair and violins and Mr. Yeats himself gave themselves to me little more than an hour ago. I heard the old, old men say, ‘Everything alters, And one by one we drop away.’ They had hands like claws, and their knees Were twisted like the old thorn-trees By the waters. I heard the old, old men say, ‘All that’s beautiful drifts away Like the waters.’ William Butler Yeats – The Old Men Admiring Themselves In The Water Thoughts too, emerge: love knows nothing of expectations; responsibility indeed, but never the evil tyrant of...