Wednesday, September 10, 2014



The reason is love, but what is its role, that is not grandeur,
That we could not experience through parasympathetic innervations
In eternal somnolence; love we receive and share
But are no more indebted to than breaths or farts?
Making me less real, there
Is nothingness, like that described in Descartes's
Meditations, a nothingness about me;
Or lassitude through self-loathing.
Alas for non-entity;
For abidance; feeling disliked,
Solicitous of waiting lists.
Alas for fate,
When pain of privation, probate
To the heart's proving,
Makes me less real, removing
The subject.

Using sublunary religious ideologies
And temporal developments in world events
As metaphors for my own sense
Of tenuous existence.

Morrissey's new album,
Waiting Times are Genocide,
Is on heavy rotation;
Prayers are obsessive-compulsive mantras
Lost to semantic satiation,
And the want of results exposes such rents
Within the family and in the self,
Until this thought takes over:
Should I doorstep the radiologist,
Offer pelf or admonishment
To expedite.

Elysia Byrd, you paint the underground lake in Darfur,
But my sense has grown too frail to take solace in your pink-hued appellations.
The Stour, my Rubicon, marked with stulp of despair,
Stalls at Ettington Park, but my mind departs
With glad and temeraire
Volition from tenets of culture, and starts
To seek myself; to be gone is still to be;
And first I will view that painting,
New, by Elysia Byrd,
To reflect upon my transferred
Epithet: does sense take solace,
Or does my soul
Take it? Chiaroscuro, role
Of love, Byrd's frontier,
Is delineated here
As flowstone.

Here is the song version.