Can we blame the moth?
So drawn to the wonder of a naked flame, they cease their existence for one moment in its warmth and beauty. As I stand below the moonlit sky, I find I myself am no better than the fluttering shadow of the night. I would throw my life away just to live in the magic of the stars, if only for a second.
Thimbles of ancient obscurity
overfilled chalice
losing faith over its rim
as you walk around the crater
which way
go down in a collapsing
dance sequence underfoot
these crystalline eyes emit square tears
like sugar cubes spat out by a dispenser
the shock value of secretaries
wasted on the military
imprisoned by wealth and influence
he had to wear a hat in the sunlight
it burnt yellow rings into his skin
He spent the afternoon arguing
about the state of the prisoners
they walked with a broken gait
dragging their feet through the yard
knees bent and sad
lifted by boney fingers
the ritual of the lost
the jarring words of a matriarch
working you back to the straight and narrow
working you with an eye to the nothing
with an eye to the end
- 5 November 2008
The Rat Catcher
When summer heat has lulled Faro into a stupor,
rats that live in its old sewers come up to enjoy
the sea breeze, but for the hiss, they are as a low
flying heat cloud towards the dock, while eating
half consumed hamburger and chips.
They are so fleeting and shimmering that if you
not especially look for them they are not there,
except for the odour of sewers that lazily drifts
in the air, before dawn when the street cleaning
wagon comes rumbling along they retreat.
To their dens while listening for my steps they
know that I can hear them they also know that
I’m aware of their plan to occupy the town by
attacking sleeping people eating their eyes and
let them helpless stumble into the sea.
I know all this as I walk around in the night
keeping vigil, I’m the inhabitants, saviour,
they shrug at my warnings think I’m mad, that
makes rats laugh in their bunkers, yet they
shake with fear when hearing my Harvey walk.
Deserted houses invoke a fascination,
The mind in love with the inexplicable,
Seek out rooms for ingenious exploration
Of the contours of delegated extroversion.
Removing the cloak hiding the inside,
Find the old clock hung on the gray wall
Time over and arms stuck of old age
Antiquated furniture burnished in the psyche.
Obsolete thoughts of the ordinary
Going up staircase holding the archaic
Banisters supporting fragile men and women
Paintings of who adorn the walls of introversion.
The old newspapers stacked like a pillar of Times
The tattered books on shelves of derangement
And the dining table helping no food for thought
The fireplaces burning desires, sighing and moaning
No room for any more surmises, the languid mind
Fall in to a deep slumber in one of the bedrooms
On a well laid out bed of red roses still fragrant.