Any More Good

Crafted pinwheels of patterned papers
Whirl slowly by the dawning of sunsets
While the winds are a gently yawning
Bidding weaver’s weaving loose blankets
To count their knotted silvered threads.

Learning what was worthwhile while
Tending to a craftsmanship just to adjust
The visual aspects of what wasn’t any more
Good in any way then what they’d had
Before they could speak of the significance.


Was Well

Cemented bricks in walls shift and spin
Above concrete grounds, where they
Ground, sending particles adrift,
Closing in boundless
Areas, leaving an opening that was slim,
Which it peered through, unable to see or
Hear the far off buzzing from within.

Turning its ear towards the slit,
It heard its partner, “I’ll be
Gone soon, don’t have a fit.”

Well, it only thought it did

While its partner could not
Distinguish if it existed.

Luminary Stick Homes

“A tragedy, perhaps we could deign, or hope, to call it that,
Could be the awareness in solidarity; ‘I am the sole proprietor,
And/or creator, of concept x.’, ‘I, alone, am at fault/blameless
In this scenario.’, ‘If only I had done y instead of z.’,
A concentration on ones capabilities, or lack thereof,
And/or et cetera: a laziness or ineptitude,
In the desireless search for every perceivable universe,
When the exploration of ideas built by prime movers
Offers its visions, we mindlessly pour out our sorries;
Nuanced words, as though it is a resolution to our brokenness
Without reasoned questions, plans and application,
Within an unmeasured moment or moments,
Or, possibly, in the span of their disappointing life,
Only without ever having known
Even toothpicks can build a luminary home.”

“Yeah, but I’m still sorry.”

Since She Left

Readily, he stood before a tree of massivity,
Where hundreds of faceted crystal
Fruits in bunches, aptly hung from
Branching limbs, sparkling,
Glimmering, glistening, reflecting
Silvers unto each other, into one another,
Transparently, in every hue of every
Colour in the visible spectrum,
He stood there in awe at the array,
Dancing, in a daze, searching,
Pressurised explosions, shattering,
Splintered shards shooting towards
Him, miraculously barely
Missing his eyes,
When he’d gone
Searching for her.

Waves of Time

After years of daily cohabitation, while rewatching timed recordings
Of these gorgeous florae daemons, with petals, or leaves,
Empyreally whirling unceasingly around their forms,
Entirely dependent on speciality,
Incandescent preditorial eyes
Typically synonymous to their
Flora, in association, able to see
Intricacies we were incapable of,
Which could, or would, morph
Into metalloids, be projected from
A quick, sharp exhale, inhalation,
Or by any sort of willed disturbance
In the air, were thus ruthlessly utilised
As tactical arms, along with
A kind of artful martial combat,
That was sudden, quick, and swift,
With the ability to go unseen,
In the midst of encounters even,
I, tearily, found myself reliving
Against the empirical waves of time
When they had become of death.


In my search for an answer in this,
Maybe.. for whether we may be, wrong
Second guesses about the weather, I failed to notice
Mailed notes of primary concerns on reverse rivers
Sent to me daily, didn’t prevent practically every other
Setter from placing cameras around the place we sat, to
Redeem our names, on our studies of upstreams,
Then remembered, how I’d always forget why,
When deviants didn’t last long enough to remind..


Stoically, they stood some distance apart,
Listening to ambiguities defining, when
Shoguns holding polished steel
Blowguns unto their lips, parted
Figures in configured opposition reeling
In bowstrings, their bow arms pointing
Up towards illusive illuminations flickering
In front of an ultramarine and indigo empyrean,
Brusquely pivoting shoulders, aiming
Their poisoned tipped arrows,
Their fantastical flaming darts,
In an instant in delirium, releasing
Unforgiving fates falling; untried lessons
Upon those they’d contritely descend.