Passing Fictions

(mostly) unedited.


It starts with an aromatic whisp of sumac and mace
Before laying light lines of lips on nape
Only to end caressing a small crying face
So ends the beginning: with a taste for tears
While lips carve caresses on lobes of ears
Leaving hollow caverns we’ll fill with the years


perhaps you dream, you cannot tell
but that she appears before you
an oasis breaking the desert spell
her eyes glinting a mild hue
cat-like, coy, her surface calm
betrays a dazzling opalescence
shaded but by green grace of palm
windlessly swaying to her presence

and You, haggard, disbeliever
drink your fill
your thirst sated
unceremoniously, carry on


How far have flown those light-bodied birds
Born of summer-balmed lust and vengeful hope
Transient shapes cresting seasonal winds
Laced with the cloudless dreams of unspent youth

Here you'll find calls against the clear skies,
The jesting mirth of the jaded mallard;
Of the intrepid ibis' insightful proof;
The rich harvest of the hardworking heron;
The ruffled plumage of the lovebird's coup

No matter the bird, summer ends stirring
A tempestuous migration of itinerant youth
Time again to while the hours away crafting
Resolutions to lose to the next season's truth


They sit drinking tea
saying nothing with
their words

While the teacups scream
rattling their saucers
the chairs scrape and moan
out their burden

in a blind corner
their shadows embrace
even as they politely smile
and part their ways


Two paths diverged in a burning wood,
and I,
I let the flames run high
and with a burning sigh
passed from where I stood
two narratives diverged as far as they could
and I,
I turned towards neither
nor away from either
until lost in the next wilderness I stood


We leap into each other's lives
each lunge a protracted light
blade refracting, bending sight
obscuring past myths, even connives
to pool hope into a false promise
long-forgotten in some blight
Yet what choice, but to play with light?
Rather a false color
than darkness' plight

wooden soliloquy

Mere minutes from white swollen froth's
mid-morning turbulence of a marriage
between south Atlantic and Indian Sea,
stray mists dance to amber rays
of cold light's struggle against the panes'
framed tears to a wooden soliloquy
Outside the window wind the sprawling lanes
while I choose to wend inward, seemingly lost
to a wondrous walk free of winter rains
accompanied by Fulton, Harris and Frost
our path a pencil-sketched curiosity


Blameless, revolving, the earth inherits
The earth; its boundless children without merit
Nameless, let fall through fingers the mantle
Of ancestral iniquity; aimless they ferret
Out fuel to flame their desire, a charred earth
Blameless, revolving, in time soon forgotten


I trip and fall into your eyes
a sinewy descent dreamt down
gorges lined in gnats and flies
agape, a rushing nadir grapples
hordes of monstrous sepulchral
beasts in burden, each shackles
the gaze; mesmerizes the eye
seduces the mind with a lie
so simple as to wind up
questioning the reason why
I am a beast unburdened;
shackles loosened
mind unquestioning
a murder in foreign motion
my leathern lies spread wings
birthing flight
out of your eyes, it seems
come dark notions


Sonorous I sing
my swift drooping
as a lone leaf
arcing and swooping
sounding a deep
mellifluous looping
only to land a light heap
downy meadows of sleep


oh, we cut the old gods down
with axes of need and round
eyes of steel we took our time
and with all our pride
moved the second hand forward
look, we did it for our beloved
and for our love we made
ourselves known; with shrieks
and bellows we obliterate old
hallows in a story to save our own
now, we are the ones who are holy
waiting in line for the minute hand
sign to herald a wholly new order
so, we wait out our time
(having lost all our kind
to a new god's shrine)
begging for death by the hour


Gripped in a latent tide so burning
I lay still while tossing and turning
And So once taught a lover
“To love is to teach”
To light a way,
And in this way beseech
Her own lambent
Pathway to reach
Yet however deep in trust of
Beauty and rhyme
I wade as unsure of
Her way as mine


Let’s watch hamsters spin wheels in little cages
Next to toy men working weeks for their wages
telling tales of a breadcrumb trail's
march to the ages

For a home is what is to heal the disease
Of a tortured life lived alone so please
Don’t forget that stable shrine; That ages’s tome
That grand old story of living with one’s own

Never so strong a call I’ve known
To build a palace of play; to roam
through time in rhythmic tone
in resonance herald in harmony
my home


That nether day
with upside down
He proclaimed
He was living
Life all alone
with his w?fe


You fall in love with her
Without time or feeling
A faint struggle forming
in face of strong appealing
soft symmetric calling
roaring resonant reeling
Easy now, wander its words,
a crowd of characters revealing
lack of reason; a letting go
a flowing dance of healing


Why wed these swollen words?
One brutally enforced alliance
following another mechanical
stunted outgrowth

why dive these black oceans?
What voice demands vibration
amidst sounds so sharp
as to singe the lashes
of another innocent’s eyes

Perhaps for the same reason that a mother
in choking fits and violet screams
Births by violent brush-stroke
Love for her stillborn son

the old testament

he is an (infrequently) conscious agent with lossy state composed of a painful superposition of mutually incomprehensible narratives simultaneously undergoing chaotic time-evolution.

Until recently his spatial probability distribution was localized in that region of North America commonly denoted Cambridge (pronounced ˈkām-brij) in Massachusetts. This spatial mode has since undergone rapid decoherence; the ensuing time-evolution flow appears to exhibit multiple highly correlated pseudo-stable modes.

He—or someone he used to be—has spilled a questionably coherent trail of curiosities. If you believe in form: writing, code, tweets, videos, and photography. If you don't, well done.
Should you find the above off-putting it is suggested you find, steal or purchase a sense of humour;
alternatively, spend time reading books published by Springer (or similar corporation) sporting greek symbols wedged between words crafted by those who make it their profession to be as esoteric as possible.

Of course, this is all done artfully.

Social protocol necessitates the serving of a dish more seasoned to taste.