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Poem


What lesser mortals? 

What lesser mortals
than Rimbaud
claim themselves 
a poet within 
another self, 
for there is more 
than just one self

depending on the
time and day 
and nothing 

is as it seems
at first, 
we are born 
from abstract 
firmament to the 
Infirmament

arriving 
planned and unplanned 
in the in-between

swaddled in skin, 
a nude shade of blue
turning pink 
and revolutionary
the most sincere
we've ever been

we are slapped to 
make loud noises
to prove we are alive;

we are small noises
for the most part 
of our continuum
as we evolve 
we reveal our 
true colours

our different dimensions
bleed like water pastels
we are shades 
and shadow of each, 
easily morphing into
the will of others

less than 
and more than likely
just to keep the peace
or challenge 
subterranean night crawlers
from their obligatory big sleep

silent scarabs 
black hats wearing 
white hats 
guarding gates
of ruined castles
like red caps

pacing the watchtowers
like laughing hyenas
for their better
bleached masters
who are small noises
for the most part

(LadyLabyrinth / 2023)









“As I was going down impassive Rivers,
I no longer felt myself guided by haulers:
Yelping redskins had taken them as targets
And had nailed them naked to colored stakes.

I was indifferent to all crews,
The bearer of Flemish wheat or English cottons
When with my haulers this uproar stopped
The Rivers let me go where I wanted.” 




“And from then on I bathed in the Poem
Of the Sea, infused with stars and lactescent,
Devouring the azure verses; where, like a pale elated
Piece of flotsam, a pensive drowned figure sometimes sinks”

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