Verbatim

honesty is overrated,

life’s pronoun for lies
delayed or better claimed
than the eye can wrestle with

or name for their subtle, spinning dervish dance,
steady as the candle’s flailing ember game
against a snapshot of chewed fairground floss,

or creaking piano stool and the song
of you, this and each step’s saccading rush
between ligaments of cotton and silk

seems breathless and hesitant all at once,
a frictious con of skin, sound and disclosure.
It’s all in the release, the sweet suggestion

of no more attempt at throated deflection,
while shadows still enclothe the pages
as the light retreats, only jagged grazes

admit in trying to scrawl it out,
transcribe new soul to memory
what lingers here, nor you, nor me

our verbatim dance of honesty.

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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.