For Pseudo-Intellectuals

I could never write about silver blades,

Spools of dreams clinging on bloodied spades or

Strange prophesy babbled through obscurity.

I have known

Neither skill nor seen my visions fulfill themselves into

The geometry of the strange, only to arrange

My thoughts into school girl verse.

My pale hands slouch at my desk,

Inscribe the meandering and the grotesque…

some pretty, some perverse.

But my friend, your world is fake,

Feed on Thoreau and Blake,

And your borrowed parasitic lines seek to contemplate

Nothing new, just the metaphysics to construe , the recondite for its own sake.

[Addendum- I am rhyming too much these days. Blank verse is more becoming? What say?]

Breaking the Silence

'…for you, words are just paper boats in the rising tide. I fret with starry lines, incomplete rimes, and feel cut and dried. Through fevered afternoons with nothing but syllables of silence to bring solace, pieces of you in my secret interstellar space, I have counted the minutes to madness.

Waking unto you in the winter rise, G minor across my tin, I wonder if I should cross my eyes, or should I disappear under your skin..."