A roll of fog over the downs
smelling of sea.
A flock of green starlings
outpace the sun,
the sun still yawning
among the wet aloe fronds.
A mopish bobcat stares
at the fleece-like clouds,
his slick yellow eyes
plumb the depths
of beyond...
And there, uphill, nearly floating
over the fog in motion,
with invisible scissors
I snip the stars.
All the monkeys of Emile Borel
now are tapping away
randomly
at my keyboard
pulling off the poems
I was not ever talented
to write
as a token of my love
for thee.
A Claudian sunset
a punnet of fruits on the windowsill,
a white nag can be discerned
grazing afar along the horizon:
beacons of light in a benighted world.
Undulations of shaded valleys and reveries.
A moon-caressed gnomon
as the phallus of some forgotten god,
god combing the goldfields of memory
where, naked, cavort
all my past and imaginary loves.
Susurration of willows over the gleaming water,
stentorian voices of rivers that swell in the night,
the night coming down like a wound tiger
who stares, melancholy, the orange gloam of dusk:
beacons of light in a benighted world.
The dreams I didn't dare to make real
have turned into crows.
She turned up all of a sudden
as a broken fingerpost announcing
the safest path to nowhere.
And she smelled so good
in the summery breeze
as the poems I have no written yet.
But she glanced at me like someone
that scrutinizes a face
of a missing person in a wall flyer.
On the tarmac, kissed by the rain,
still glistened the shadow of her last word.
In military fatigues, the poet
trains his metaphors
to survive banality, transcience, void.
Unfazed by the noise of defeat and rain.
Inebriated by his own daydreams.
Though the golden spark, lost,
and the undertow of sadness, stronger:
he does not raise yet the ad digitum
to the shadows.
He still dreams of swanning off
with a mermaid, even brushed by age.
A belle dame sans merci
Enthralling the path without path,
the preordained beauty of love
with deathless death and no love.
*
His uncertain voice
besought to a certain night:
'What's the smell of the hours passing?
Has the touch its own memory
as Keats said once?
Why am I here in the same muddled being?
Why am I not the others?
When i shall be basking in the sunshine
of my true self?
When I will stop stampeding
like horses through the fog of time?'
My life is somber
like those blues of Picas
so
so
I will treat you
to the most beautiful
of my suicides
I already hear
the staccato laughter
of Rimbaud at dusk
and Giorgione
playing the luth
to a Venetian maiden
and my father a sudden barfly
singing guarachas
to a jiggy Silvia Plath...
May I have a drumroll
while entering
in Hell?
