OFF THE MAP
you lovd to frustrate me,
fire at me,
play sexual politics
strike true anti-colonial poses
revolutionary stances
in the bedroom
and pretty
much everywhere else
slide of lathe
recoil of the typewriter
hostile gestures of
a body
at large
naked in its knowledge
stripped of all pretension
the cement set to
seal the concrete of
your foundations
still
bottom of the harbor wet
as absurd
a lockstep as you
might
manage to get
Oh, you say, Medusa eyes
fastening upon me
we are that absurd
complete creature whose
permanent state of ecstasy
no god
or goddess could withstand
absurdly un-Platonic in the
daft contours of its beauty
and Aristophanes (for
it was he) rueful
of this
surgical separation even
if carved
by divine hand
at one stroke a lost comedy
and hydra of philosophy
from Socrates to Nietzsche
the words of
the mind to
bring merciful spin
to
the painful ontology
premised upon
that forever division
distinction
chasm
in the heart of desire
between woman and man
****
SMALL
here be
magic mirrors
reality killers
things Harry
Houdini found
in the book
of Thoth
magic they are
mirroring their means
but your inner
weather being stormy
heart
cloudy
they show only shadow
an
essential condition
and here we have
halls full, a glade
mirrors
covering, mapping
an entire topography
every mirror
giving room
for reflection, a room
a boudoir that
is a reflection upon
all
that is
hidden perspective
room within
a room
tesseract mirror
containing its
own reflection
and you
with pencil and paper tasked
to sketch
this truth in
myriad dimensions
all
unfolding
in real time
tiniest of spheres, indeed
infinitesimally small
yet
containing the Universe
containing every everything
****
DOWNSIDE
feel I am
going down
bound to get
relegated
have already fallen
half the distance
of any
dark angel
down a division
in fact
every division
imparting a whole
new meaning to
the word
“relegated”
but if
jury is already out
and what be
must be
(to the tune of
Helter Skelter no
lesser
lovey-dovey tune of
Messers Lennon
and McCartney)
into that place far from self
from the centre
from
the presence of
God (here I go with Augustine,
father
of Bishop Prevost lately Leo)
but not
for pride or for wrath
or envy
(or my worst, sloth)
but simply, honestly,
inescapably
for lust
for lust is hardly the deadly
to destroy the world
hardly the deadly of
the prince
of darkness (once light)
his
most precious self
and
in my defence to all
those who
never felt
your touch, ever cast
eyes upon
you
and yet
so quick to cite text
an eternity of torture worth
every second spent
poems 2 die for 