THE EGOTISTIC LUNATIC IN THREE ACTS
With his sorrow scattered;
and his jigsaw broken;
The Egotistic Lunatic collects pieces off the ground…
His back breaks under expense
Which cannot be outweighed by peace,
by pace,
Or (tragically) repentance…
Atlanticide
Atlanticide Literature | Poetry He came between us, but not like a secret love affair there’s nothing secret about him there’s no affair we can see him though he’s absence not his absence your absence. my absence. our...
Envelopes
Marco awoke with a muddled gasp. He was on his feet, midway between his study and the bedroom. The hall was dark, his throat dry. He put a hand against the wall and waited for the debilitating confusion to fade. Thankful he hadn’t tumbled down the stairwell, he plodded to the bathroom for a drink from the tap and slid back into bed beside Connie. He rubbed his eyes and was asleep within minutes.
Singularity Ex Nihilo
Words show nothing. Out of nothing
Come the wondrous things.
Words are light, in the beginning:
There is awe in the silence of light.
Commune, at night, with your heart upon your bed,
And be still. Out of darkness
Come the wondrous things
Ex nihilo, out of the space
Of the slightly smiling expression
On the face of light.
Ironies of something
And nothing, goodness transforming,
That its joy may be made complete:
A Bitter Candy
We’re all little people down here,
don’t pray with our hands.
Four-legged at the beginning/
you’re a winged-thing aren’t you?
Still scared of the dark,
we sleep under the sheets.
Father’s climbing up the ladder.
Nick the Art Kid
Nick the art kid
Who introduced me to whorehouses and cocaine
Showed me that hedonism was a sinless path
That pleasure was the only true pleasure
And that we live inside a dream
