The Toxic
waste of bottled anger
Life belly up.
The reeds.
The wind is hissing
a river holds
its vapour breath
and leaves black lips
of tar and fish
a bloated shore.

Strolling in the boneyard of my life:

bleached dreams,

mementoed ossuary of my insights.

On flaking fenceposts, impaled the child that I had been.

Peering from desiccated sockets, the Plague thatís me:

dust-irrigated, arid tombstones,

a being eclipsed.


Stage 1, receding, jettisoned, stage 2, exiled velocity, stage 3, stage 3 ...

The armoured carapace.


In glinted envelope, pulsating, rarefied,

A fiery launch that crumbles into

velvet silence.

No comm.

On impact, just a

star rush,

the pullulating milky veins,

expired, crater-ridden scars.

What's in your call sign? Freedom? Friendship? Faith?

None, I think. I am over, out,

an iron shell,

tons in a matchbox,

frenetic revolutions,

ray bursts,

the stellar remnant

of collapse.


Attend my woods,
part shadow, part man that
I am.

The textured leaves.