Eirôn’s Reprise

My home is a place of pain and of pride,
May my history shock and maybe surprise;
In memories made I cannot reside,
Over life’s table we drown and reprise.

We lost, and in forfeit we laughed and we cried;
We won, and in gaining we argued and vied;
Endless injustice, only Eirôn survived –
Letting go of our wealth, we suddenly died.

Out Of Body

I am within a constantly spinning
Out of body experience;
It's true that Suzie made me do it.
Give me a cello and a double bass
And I ascend the braced confines
Of a marshy soul so sublime
You could flush for a thousand years
With all your torch-bearing trodden might
And a dynamic jubilation of flutes
And yet never find a mallow-pheasant,
And yet never see its sparkled flight.

Pristina

My love does not sustain me -
Autumnal rain, alerts anew
For loved-ones long since missing,
Cordon over whole hearts blue.

Nor now hope sustain me -
Basalt-livered, they stood
Our sodden searchers down,
Blood-deep in myth and rue.

My mizzle-soul in mistle,
We cheered a plum rakija!
Secrets in a windy keep,
The citadel is incomplete

And so we dance mazurka.

The Last Poet

From the very ends of my fingertips,
My fingerprints as old as rings in the oaks
Of the seven southern counties lost,
Or the sincere lines 
Not just merely-read 
By a calcified Babylonian 
Chiromancer, but upheld
As something splendid,
As delicate as dreams in a turning moth,
I will channel and convey
The ferocious glass-through burning
Compelling a demiurgic resolution
To my resistible demise,
With dazzling apogees we shall rise
From this derelict and too-long,
Much too-long debasing nadir
Scrubbed clear of demagoguery,
And we shall thrive, for love,
For all that is still worth celebrating,
Then like Emily, and Edward,
And all the ancient poets,
Just as suddenly disappear.

Futility No.2

To deny a drought, or climate end,
Ask how they kept their courses green,
Golfers, jockeys and those ascending
Unseen dukeries and queens
En route to monasteries,
Palaces and temples.
A river is not for mending.

I tried turning my mind upside down
And squeezing from this melancholic brain
Just like towels in a turbid
Samian stream
Or a memory of lemons
From a dry, unholy plain;
Yet the unfurnished words in my urn
Became vapour, became sky
And therefore irreverant.

Nonchalant gods
Dropped lapis lazuli
Into that cracked amphora
Not long after I died.

My quest remains
For something
That did not exist.

How futile.
How endless.

Giraffe River

My one and only sovereignty
Is undeniable sadness.

In these remote soliloquies
I would seek forgiveness

For something other than being alone.
There is a pleading stone in my throat,

Neither gemstone nor the coke
Smoked from under a distant slope,

I own my descendency, my business
Being a militant trope

Ossified into a monopyrenous
Imported drupe,

A flag flutters briefly over my eyes,
And in that dimming whittled flute

Sounds of my endless demise.