The Lotus Box

whenever I latch onto the words
having taken the long view, telescopic,
I’m always seeing their double duplicated –
hearsay’s echoes draw us close
before meaning does more than halve
instead of staving off a rhyme
that falls off mountainsides
pretending to echo.
there’s no meaning here, I should warn you
I’m mustering deception and its breezes,
lest you step too close to the sucker punch.
ego has its own ways of eating
echo chambers and projections,
offering an impression of bitter defeat
when hope is replaced with honesty
but these turns, like my mind,
realise a lotus box, sliding
away from the suggestions of a monument,
means acceptance of the exaggerated past,
not the failure of fable
nor the silence of tomorrow.

To the watermark

You, having skimmed your way out here,
now reaching down between swell and foam
the way the light sends shadows,
hands see the suggestion of colour.
Grasping at meaning, the current
refuses to relent, intent on its own
desires, a sky elsewhere.
Struggling to detect all the voices
never spoken, I turn the river off,
letting the silence breathe.


‘Is it your last day on Earth,
or everyone’s last day?’
Facing the final knell and breath
she sends forth bloodlust, death wishes,
siren song of the offering end: a take-down,
not a few. Seizing that coup de grĂ¢ce, she dwells
on that momentary unzipping
when those corseted inhibitions
unfold with naked pride.
Ends would be burnt worthwhile,
shameless rage dashed cheek red
with a splattering of right.
Take a tour around the closet, though,
where hangs an abundance of vengeance
organised by fabric, size and sin,
a precious, mirror-tested catalogue
she now dips in and pivots, testing the
glimmer of this dream attire
between the merest suggestion
of a hanging pause.
‘I would kill all my enemies.’
(Haters gonna hate.)