Dark horse whines silently and alone
When the festered face of the moon
Leers at bulbous trees under.
Darkness comes forth with tholes he
Lives with, as festal drumming yonder
Celebrates the fickleness of weak champions.
Even trollops reign in circuses of wide-coloured
Buntings for drunken celebrations only.
Dark horse rests on a settle, descrying the
Weakness of every culture from the stems of
......
End-rain . . .
Ebb tide comes from famished deluge
receding fast on clumsy, wet feet
flirting with vagrant soils.
Flung across these territories,
haggard fishing nets of grandfathers
hanging on masts of bamboo,
struck by thunder
and kissed by ribs of lightning.
......
I recall the rural life of the butterfly
Extravagantly —that proud floating mass of wings.
Her wings flutter from sea to coast so eloquently,
Yet silent with the muteness of frightened breeze.
They are banners with buntings of newness — striped,
Spotted, arched, dotted.
Her flamboyant life history, reading it backwards,
Is an exhibition of time and cosseted patience . . . .
The winged one, aged and tried, schleps to the stirs of a narcoleptic pupa,
Hanging on the banisters of a dear larva who’s egged on to
......
They fall from grace to grass,
aged, scorched and dehydrated,
fluttering away further
the vanity of previous
greenness and elevated times,
reminding us of the fragility
of life,
the futility of striving to hang on
when time is up.
Verdigris is the evidence of death,
the symbol of ruin,
of waste,
of abandonment,
of incest,
sign of eternal grief...
Dust your BOOKS of verdigris,
of the mould from which penicillin
would dread.
......
Metamorphosis
It's not late, never too late
to change direction
only that we should put aside
what had held us in long prison-
to rise above our meagre selves
to brave the roughest tides of the ocean
to explore and plunge into the unknown
......
Verdigris is the evidence of death,
the symbol of ruin,
of waste,
of abandonment,
of incest,
sign of eternal grief...
Dust your BOOKS of verdigris,
of the mould from which penicillin
would dread.
......
End-rain . . .
Ebb tide comes from famished deluge
receding fast on clumsy, wet feet
flirting with vagrant soils.
Flung across these territories,
haggard fishing nets of grandfathers
hanging on masts of bamboo,
struck by thunder
and kissed by ribs of lightning.
......
Dark horse whines silently and alone
When the festered face of the moon
Leers at bulbous trees under.
Darkness comes forth with tholes he
Lives with, as festal drumming yonder
Celebrates the fickleness of weak champions.
Even trollops reign in circuses of wide-coloured
Buntings for drunken celebrations only.
Dark horse rests on a settle, descrying the
Weakness of every culture from the stems of
......
I recall the rural life of the butterfly
Extravagantly —that proud floating mass of wings.
Her wings flutter from sea to coast so eloquently,
Yet silent with the muteness of frightened breeze.
They are banners with buntings of newness — striped,
Spotted, arched, dotted.
Her flamboyant life history, reading it backwards,
Is an exhibition of time and cosseted patience . . . .
The winged one, aged and tried, schleps to the stirs of a narcoleptic pupa,
Hanging on the banisters of a dear larva who’s egged on to
......