Dissection

Keep a comfortable distance
Away from prosperity before
It can make potholes of the
Windows of opportunity
Through which the house
God lives in finds the light
Of day.

Sail to the sun.
Backwards from the apocalypse
Searching the advent for a
Rubber band, to hold the
Letters together when
The speech is read out
In the basement of rapture
Backwards from the new eclipse
Captures the sizzle
The fire
The pew broken
Shattered by the wrist
That shackled membrane
That tepid cork
Burst.

Keep a wine bottle in the cooler for the better days
That have run out
With the children outside.

Settle back in.
The world is wet and the seat is damp
And the wood is growing
Beneath the carpet.

Upstairs there's a man
Singing about his imagination
Soaring into valleys
That break through mountains
Hit pelicans in the eye
And startle prams
Through a hole in the concrete.

Catch this
Cold feet
In the bathtub
Masturbating
A vulture calling out
In ecstasy
Ready to feed upon
Death's leftovers.

A Hand Still Outstretched

There is a written rule, on gossamer,
that movement ceases when I scream
and refuse to listen to the peace, silent,
trying to protrude through the dream.
Where is faith - while I hold myself
by the throat, unwilling to deconstruct
the torture chamber I built, misguided,
seeking to live as I have been instruct.
Care is mistaken for harm, I know this
yet refuse to unchain myself - be not
my anguished self, a lie, but give the past
away, exposed, so it can be forgot.
Is there care where I have buried my soul,
or have I no faith that I am already whole?

Give

The best gift is the present.

Mote Of Life

Unfinished writing on a half
written page of a half-
filled book of words
that would mean something
if sentences would
complete,
paragraphs would
end,
chapters would
close,
verses would
flow
down

further

down a falling wave,
suspended continuity,
forgotten serenity,

down
further to

a whitewash of text
that doesn't really make any sense
but it keeps gurgled suspense
that extends
outwards
towards