The Flautist

I sipped from a magical teapot,
I sang for a musical turn,
A flautist funneled all my dreams –
Flames my mouth did burn.

A dragon and a succubus
Soared upon my tongue,
And when I woke, I swore I heard
A voice from years far-flung.


Same thoughts,
Get over it
The counsel said,
Within a witch,
When she stirs
I start to twitch,
When I twitch
I start to think,
Gears will shift
And skin will itch.

Same thoughts,
Same day,
I was born
To be betrayed,
I was born
To know the stray.
Why this cursed,
I cannot say.

Death herself is
More or less
Somewhat experiential,
A bruising myth
Handed from fathers
To their children
Like unwanted gifts;
Ushered in,
Rather than die
For certainties
I fly on a whim
That skims
In the far Hesperides.

Drowned by
And cajouling Fate,
Stateless sister
Wearing midwinter,
A bleakly
Wielded and
Unreformed and

One of my
Is emerging in my
Synaptic troughs,
This one headed with
You are not good enough‘.
His thoughts are in crimson,
There are eels in his blood;
When he moves, I tend
To expend
Entire mornings lost
Watching windscreen wipers
Swiping in the same
Parking lot
I mentioned before.

Death is whittled
On whetstones of Time,
Sharp bladed Time,
And I am frightened
Of a place that is final,
A place definitively
Made without rhyme.

The Dragon And The Descent

A dormant volcano
Just above my knee,
A crater dry and the size
Of Galapagos
Or a similar island
Where turtles nest,
And where a bullet
Entered my carapace
And burrowed like
A monstrous frenzied
Labour of Moles
Without being shot;
I parachuted through
The ellipse and
Time played cards
With the Moles
For my life;
I recall while falling
One Mole turned to Time
And said ‘I have a Full House
And you have a Flush,
In Tudor verse
We were called
Moldwarps, but it didn’t stick,
And we’re not as dramatically bad
For gardens as people think’,
But Time is always
So difficult to impress,
Often grumpy if disrupted
And churlish,
So he played his hand,
While tumbling over
And over I finally
Hit the crystalline floor
Of that Bottomless Pit,
For though the townsfolk
Had often talked of that
Particular myth,
An eponym its coronet,
No one had really questioned it
By jumping in.

Down here, I can no longer tell
The difference between
What I’d choose to believe
And to what I am compelled.

Thinking back to the crater’s base
Reminds me in my writing age
Of a celebrated event
From several Lords later
When a Dragon of the Waterways
Swallowed all the town’s
Gold dubloons of innocence;
The Shugo solemnly
Summoned me to eviscerate
The lumbering gaited terror
As it burped its way
Through the northern gates.
Surrounding the scaly form
We were singed by its hiccuping fire;
Inside the demon’s belly I landed,
Lay within the lake of his thoughts;
My sword unhanded, the dragon bayed,
The gold poured out like heated milk
And days in silk were born.

I woke up propped against a wall
Strafed with all the bullet holes
From out of which I somehow crawled
And squinted at the guilt of sun.
Seven men, themselves a descendant
Of someone then who’d be appalled,
A father too perhaps, who knew
Discoloured uniforms and bruising
Flags, buttons mismatched
And with moustaches
Bushy and rampant over their upper lips
Like thick sebaceous creeping plants,
The stitches in their nostrils
Flared like a pregnant dragon’s
In minaiture, although
All talk of myths by then were banned,
And although I spoke and to Pablo
Pleaded ‘we used to be friends,
Remember, you worked on the post
And I made amends’,
With rifles they aimed,
Ready to send me swiftly
With unread letters
Back in to myself again.

Would I be one day shot
For heresy?
For poetry?

Of such a world
I’ll scratch, as
I’d rather fall down
A deep crater like that
Since flattened,
Than suffer my meek current land
Of bland platitudes
And preventable obsequies.