Tragedy and Silence Share an Address/ False Prophets Be Damned

The solipsist offers nothing

more than erudite insight of his own

failings, all of which he creates

the fiction of fancy beyond

himself.  We all know him

to be fallacious.  Every religion

warns of the false prophet.  Call him

the Laureate of Narcissism.  The insidious

nature of man and all his addictions

to himself come rallying forth in a grotesque

display of playing pretend.  Feigning to be a feeling

person concerned with the welfare of that

which lies beyond his skin. He is a fake.  Those

who follow the charmer make of themselves not even

snakes, but wriggling worms to be bated then drowned

with a sinker in his shallow reflecting pond.

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Till the End of Time

She doesn’t want to add another name

to the list of regrets,

 

those damn what-if’s.  Genuine gestures

 

propagated by a loving posture should not be

full of disappointment.  That’s the real

 

shame, but it’s the guilt of loving

sincerely that steers

 

the seconds ahead of her.

No Remedies for Memories

Not even scared, with his hateful

hands wrapped around her swanlike neck

squeezing she thought.  At least it’s clear what

 

indifference to another human being looks like.  Through her

 

Indian-burnt neck she could only grasp out

clouds of ash falling like hymnals

 

to the floor.  Word collapsing in each

 

gasp for breath, she knew it comes

much faster when delivered

 

by hate.  It would end her

 

drawn-out dying brought on by

Love’s indifference to her.

Words You Said

True sort of hollowness: shells tangled

in Misery Bay’s human infected

shoreline.  The used condom

covered in algae may be someone’s

beginning, could be callous leftovers

of a date rape, under the open constellations

bouncing their radiance

through the smog of the city.  Love, as you said

it, is the empty carcass of some dead mussel.

Shadow Dancer is Sometimes Called Mademoiselle Marionette

What do these gestures mean?  It’s a loving hand

which manipulates these strings which signify

 

the puppet’s gestures.  If they are meaningless

displeasures,

the thought of a heart displaying what pumps

it being burdensome is too

much to bear, but if the actions were untimely

 

it was pure accident.  You see, I have no clue

what goes on outside my own skin, I can only imagine

 

how light illuminates different meaning in the intention

of movement, says Mademoiselle.  Can the divinity of love be

 

turned off when the Marionette is clearly tugged in gestures

trying to resemble the coursing of blood,

 

the expression of thought, but love is

illusion sometimes.  Puppets can be

 

put out of the mind so easily.  The unseen Puppetmaster can’t see

what the movements look like, Mademoiselle Marionette is

 

operated by the intuitive  pull of strings: the lines guiding

emotively.  To think that gestures of love are annoyances

 

is something to grieve, so the puppet’s head hangs its hair

shaking in shame, cornflower locks sway from one side to another

 

over a fabric hand sheltering the face

from such a harsh thing.  Feeling the strings gesticulating

 

frustration too long it’s time

to choose a different sequence of movement.  Acts of love

 

shouldn’t be an unwelcome, worrisome thing.