The Neglected English Composer

When it comes to creatures, we must be

flawed in much the same way.  Or we are


entirely alien to each other.  Stars are

blotted out of our vision—by the very man-


made devices designed to propel us

to that great expansive space


of universal oblivion—but they are silent

there expecting to be noticed.  Still there is so little


that endures, an echo from the E. J. Moeran rhapsody,

“In the Mountain Country,” sings to you


from an open window of a building labeled NO

TREASPASSING over the cracked pane of glass,


leading you to accept rejection as a component

of beauty, while “Lonely Waters” begins


to play.  When we lay our thoughts to rest

we forget we even bothered to have


them.  Where is that love so grand it changes

the whole game?  We are just keeping


ourselves from it because it doesn’t fit

with these ill formed sensibilities


making it.  There is little sense to make

of it.  Indeed, we are senseless to the sufferings


of the songs.  Songs whose lyrics can only be heard

in the soul calling out to any beautiful thing


to enchant us with wide space in the endless

horizon where the stars spend their time waiting.


What I Gotta Do

Just kiss me where it’s sore, please,

make it better.  Will it

even do anything at all?  I have always

one foot on the ground, but I have in my mind

all of these words

which break my heart.  Suppose I never ever let

you take me in as your pet, so these bars

were never built up around me.  Yes,

of course, it will get better.  I get lost

in my mind with all of these promises

for music, and the beauty

which couldn’t exist.  They are just

imaginary moments of angels.  Don’t say

you love me how I am. Clearly, your mold

of any ideal can never comprehend me.  No

tame flattering persona, here, sorry to let

you down, but all you got was me, and that’s all

I can be, begging on bended knee.

Definition Truth

v.t.  1.  subjective;

constant changing 2. human





The Orphanage in Jo’burg

The Orphanage in Jo’burg
— Read on

Poem for Patriarchy | disdainfulbeauty

Bitter, bloated bloodshot eyes are the last thing   you will see looking down at you.  Men chained to meat hooks,   darling dears just dangling there.  Lepers surrounding each   blood crusty body quivering with webs whispering   whistles of waterless poor people. I walk in   with various sizes of canes.  Who is…
— Read on

Operation Paperclip

So, are all you guys ready for the BOMB?

When formatting fucks off, take a photo


I am not sure

why, but there

are certain people who I need

to communicate with, while simply incapable,

in one capacity or another. I write instead. But

the funny thing about writing,

especially in the electronic networking era,

where human contact

is mostly on some sort of hand-held

device, I most certainly can be perceived as

unreasonable, and erratic. That is unreal

to me. So, I end up being witnessed

by the world as compulsive and

rash. When I am obsessive

and meticulous in my communications. There is

a difference. I free write. I am a poet

who is always speaking

to an intended audience, but I do

that so that the most intense

emotion I can show you is

universal. The intimate infinite.

Captain Orpheus

Even if you never speak to her

again, can you handle knowing

the poet? She is hidden in rhythmic

meter. A sensation lasting

forever. The poet is always

elusive. She is forces of imagination, emotion, instinct: the birthplace of story. So perfectly

a myth, that it must be known,

or there is nothing in this great vastness

called, “daily ritual.” The epic narration

rendering love to anyone reading,

but with only you in mind.

  • Calendar

    • August 2019
      M T W T F S S
      « Jul    
  • Search