Kingfisher
I have no song to sing
knowing that songs last forever
almost silent on the wind
I consider my wings
beating silently at the door
of eternity
A Little Ink
all the wit in the world
incomparable to handfuls of hot
dripping meat; that’s what I wanted;
everything I read
everything I wrote
to be dripping wet
La Fleur est Belle
the flower fought growth
I don’t know if you knew that
reluctant to let some mother enter it’s body
terrified of god taking Root amongst the leaves
turned its face from the sun
swore to photosynthesise in the dark
Moirai
instead of simply grazing
the surface of your breasts in desperation
& could overcome their wild passions
for the logic & mathematics of poetry
or the campaign of ecstasy I execute
as Thanatos delivering your body
Pygmalion
there are those, I discovered late, who were not born
loathing their bodies
whose faces grew from their souls, & were not stamped
upon a skull with little care