Besot
I hold the mercy of your smile -
An unsaid, ‘oh love, not again.’
You let me be the fool a while
And force my same refrain:
To give what else but dreams?
I’ve no telos; just time.
Just promises to raise supreme
The truths in dessert wines.
What’s in hand? What’s in vain?
Unyielding to a fruitless fight,
A romance of some buried claim,
– Your desperate Jacobite.
On Wasted Time
So here we shine, in has-been strife,
A hint of genesis to hold in mind.
Pieces of growing, incessant still life,
Our violent flood-breaks fail in kind.
Pick ivy, or the jagged thorn,
As buds begrudge their bloom.
Reject the wear, with shrapnel scorn,
Where parents bear their gloom.
Of a funeral wreath, I forged
Myself a slimming laurel crown.
I bite the days, and gorge
Upon the clocksmith’s fertile ground.
Go hand in hand, in fevered lands,
In nigh-eclipsèd flesh.
Consumed by Jacobins -
Dipping their rags in our excess.
What once curtained responsibility:
Guitars and scribbles, build a sepulchre.
A rebooted struggle; to be
Not the shrewd king, but the boulder.
Upon a stalk of ‘ifs’ resides,
A face of ill-begotten dreams.
Dirtied ice, pebble eyes,
Leave ripples in a lake of cream.
The potent nights, the silent feats.
The melt-away paths, off which to hide,
In dream’s abandoned streets.
If history’s a scarlet tide,
Better to gaze outward and drown,
Or paint oneself upon a gloomy town?
So here I am, just spread thinner.
Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God,
Have mercy on me, the Sinner.
