Feeding Dreams

Let the past no longer hurt,
Find the future you deserve;
Time will slow, Time will curve,
Excavate your universe.

Feeding dreams where water fills
Cactii on soul windowsills;
Their fame to take, then to kill,
Turning chervil into dill.

Propel a ferry, heads are down,
Underwater rusted crown;
Now the orb’s entrusted too,
Solo shoot into the new.

Pelotons

This breath is the breath for an ending;
This breath is the breath for defending;
This breath is a breath for befriending.

Under this gourd are skeletons;
On unseen frames ride pelotons;
Steered through hands of Telamons.

This beat is the beat descending;
This beat is the beat for a mending;
This beat is the beat never-ending.

Whitehorse

A headful of future, lesser the happened,
Helpless and hapless, a past still unfathomed;
I assumed my own death, ineffably seamless –
Life passed me by, recurringly dreamless.

A handful of future, brighter the tearless,
Time observed Her curse in a helix;
Manoeuvres of Grace, abased are the fearless,
Measured in friendships, kinship and feelings.

Pyrena

All the processed meals
And all the steady cravings;
All those times I’d mostly feel
My esurient sense of failing;
All these glands within me
Like silkworms masquerading,
Blind their burrow-mouths must be,
These ever-unworldly sensations;
Saliva in my pancreas
And bilious in my breathing;
Memories bladder-manacled
To strangely knotted bleachers
From where I sat once witnessing
Impassively, all my days receding;
With those who would abuse me
Only then, to obliterate
And smash these blistered benches –
Refuting my existence,
My purpose; those perpetrators,
Those missing old soul-eaters.

Incomprehensibly then,
Such totalities
And inexplicable mythologies,
I step out from shadows
Framing my toxic profligacy
With rhododendron, rose
And briar-choking ivy
Bordering my inadequacies
Made tangible from the tacit,
Born out from yellowed ivory.

How odd, I reflected
In afternoon relapses,
That our connections,
These mysteries,
Regardless neither of
Cooling distances
Nor cold absences which only show
Just how much we know
Each other’s oldest ossified routines
As we trespass through boundaries
Only then, again and kneaded again,
Transposed into our folded selves,
Our living sea.