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amidst this company of billowed ghosts

the echo bed of swollen heads belies

a gory hail of  rain chined inspiration

for my chiselled host and

hides cathedral vaulted cuts

of the deepest time

where darkness sparks

in resonant rhyme

and breath affords a gaudy boast

yet dies upon the budding lime

belly crawled while underneath

the aven’s insolent draught


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these morphed illusions


What are we to do
about spectres in the mirror?

Pray tell, before they rise -
filling-in memories
of film noir and poetry,
dark or brooding -
states of alienation;
blaring piano forte
of shadowy symphonics:
inimitable contrivances.
Whip out the shammy & Windex;
wipe clean these morphed illusions.


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