I haven’t yet found the first word,
The one that validates all others
And so when I move my mouth to speak,
I reveal the tragedy of empty sound.
Were I to accept this, a final decision,
I would walk til I reach the quiet mountains,
I would cut off my tongue and eat it, then,
It would better serve me in the form of food.
I am not a being of pleasure.
I envy the dog
Who doubts not his lust
Nor his hunger.
Dream Famine

A child in the wasteland, an orphan and a waif,
wanders between islands of faint luminosity,
checkpoints marked by licks of white smoke
that flicker randomly and dim without warning.

This night-walker, dejected and weak,
recedes into the darkness of a silent mind,
a mouth with no tongue, a face without eyes.

The projector that would so readily flash into action
in the untitled subspace of his being,
tonight, remains still and makes no sound,
the film reel frozen by an unknowable hand.

A prelude without potential, an ancient right denied,
his eyes turn back, then, and the mind utters a law:
‘Alone in the dreamscape are thee’.

A cleft appears in the underworld, colours seep in,
then a mounted charge of spectral light
as dawn’s light peeks, morning’s streamers fall,
the new day rolls in on the breath of a hungry dog.

Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
Gourdon, 2017
Running on smooth tires,
we, beaming diurnes,
cut the day in two;
into the sea of yellow grass
that stretches to Forfar
and the land of bold blue
That expands
toward some lesser infinity.
Odyssey of the Fly, Poetry
Turin, 2017
I have not yet committed to Italian beauty,
I am simply a tourist to her sandstone buildings –
Cattle skulls adorning great, pale archways.
Maria bows, weeping, over every boulevard,
The honesty and ubiquity of graffiti
That has been sealed into the skin of the concrete,
The countenance of her olive pastel veneers,
Silent, unchanging, the unspoken history
Of her alignments, once reale, then fascita.
The demigods still scowl from their mounts,
Though the men who had created them
Were banished by the righteous wind,
Their fiercely pretty idols still slumber,
Undisturbed, in the shopping district,
High towers, superior and unashamed,
Watch over boutiques and rooftop bars.
In the presence of these marble monarchs,
And of the very city herself, I am not unwanted
But I am not welcome.