Standing at the edge of the canal,
disarmed by a thirst for the Other
I am drawn by a cortège of smog
that assaults and lifts me in a whirling cyclone.
My mind seizes the last strands
of unfulfilled desires
like an incubus that enters one's sleep.
I stare into a murky mirror to remain afloat
and see a torrent of monotonous words
that flow fusing and confusing.
These words touch the impalpable
and tear through the tide of silence
that covers a landscape
devastated by insomnia.
They struggle as dance partners
to a copulation of sounds
and twist back onto themselves,
retracing their steps,
meandering a straight path.
They, in turn, cease to crawl
and rise to teeter above empty space
to implant themselves
into a spiral
in the centre of a page.
They are lovers and victims of a
chimerical embrace
that require
chords of separation
only to journey back into reconciliation.
Strange succubus,
this love
this fin de siècle,
dangerous as none other
in its awakened state,
as object becomes subject,
merely a gesture, a scream,
a licence
for a fleeting resolution.

In Love With Ghosts

I look into a mirror to remain afloat
and talk an endless soliloquy.
This entire torrent of words is
a great yes to life,
a yes indifferent to good and evil,
a self-regarding, prudent, avid,
generous, stupid, cosmos yes,
a yes of acceptance
that in its monotonous flow
fuses
and
confuses
past,
present
and future.
What I was,
remain
and
will become,
Everything and Everyone together
in a great exclamation
like a sea surge
that rises, falls and jumbles
all things together in a whole
that has no beginning or end.

Poetry Magazine