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Poem

When your heart 
corresponds 
with your mind,
then, give it a shot,
you write 
back to me

what expressions 
you so badly 
need 
to bleed;

the characterisation 
of letters 
are alphabet soup 
to me, child's play,
peeling tattoos 
like bells ringing 
over a tongue 
not speaking,

I swallow words
hungrily 

then I spit them out,
bullets that pierce
a page, 
bulls eyes
staring back 
through the black holes, 
the other silent horns, 
all silently complicit 

small missions 
of truth 
cornucopias,
wearing through 
the thin fabric 
of ludicrous 
fantasy

feathers that fall 
from soft pillows
quaking against 
levees breaking
the barriers hitting marks 
the sands of time broken,
river banks splitting, 

the bodies drowned
and sucked up
like works of art
in a hyped up 
Hieronymus Bosch,
if you are in deep
you can make sense 
of it all, 

you know you're in it, 
that picture, way, way
up to your eyeballs

brushing against 
all the others, removed, 
flotsam and jetsam 
in the wash, sensing 
the path they all took,
but the mystery 
of never quite knowing, 
like a smell, pervades

charcoal tears 
melt all the ways
a heart can be kicked
down and gutted 
witnessed through 
gilt edged windows
full and jaded

to a gate opening,
the sound cracking 
like a mouth 
terraforming 

dustied and green 
the shaman soul 
found underneath 
it all, humourously
rustling sage over 
the external, 
a serious novice 
for burning 

small 
exorcisms

smoking out
renegades, those
stubborn seeds planted 
in long spent sentences,
those true romantics,
the forgotten ill-bred,
well-tilled, rebel poets

small 
exorcisms

for burning





Candide Diderot. ‘24 



violins.

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