Painting the Lion 18.02.06

It stands there in the glory of all who have stood before it

labouring to cover its surface, to fill the niches, to cover

its mane it the colours of their manifest expression. Its regal

nature overcomes any shade it has been painted and will

ever be covered in, deeming future and past a part of

its tribute, the victim of its sacrificial hunger and bathed

in the blood of its bacchanal glory.

She wept into the sheets upon which she had bled and

on which they had sweated and rolled and come together

she had fallen and fallen and felt so taken that his departure

had seemed natural, had seemed part of the course of an

evening, of the ritual of lovemaking and the way that

these things did and should evolve. That was until she

found him kneeling at its base, covering it in red paint

hallowing it, and giving it the love she deserved.

A fratboy turns

a freshgirl comes

the blood she bled

it runs it runs

the paint the blood

the lion's roar

the sounds beyond

a dormroom door

a scream a shout

the cream and pink

barely noticed

the vomit's stink

to wit to woo

to barely stand

but beyond the love

he's made a man

and she so cold

a virgin lost

her story told

her body's cost

placed 19.02.06

And now, in the moment of

attendance,

there is such

lightweight movement, such

graced eyecontact

you are not here

knowing this gives

me happiness knowing

you are,

but sadness in your lackness

so a moment of waiting

of indefinite exposure

to between times,

the intervention of

the ill-timed

Relating to Josef K. 19.02.06

I claim precedence in hearing

that of which you speak

the words with which you

judge me: the actions, the

punishments that you seek.

As filmed from a camera

I stand behind a podium hands

spread seriously before me in

pleas of innocence and lacking

ballast for my position

although it is wholly defensible

you find ways to twist the words

to change my intents to

your own malice, to moments

of disengagement, of dismissal.

I claim deference in hearing

that to which you listen

the lashes on my skin

the water in my eyes

the worded torture you hasten.

I was unaware of the brash

dishonesty of truth of speaking

my mind and having its beauties

turned against me, their intents

damaged by your maligning of them

But I will continue on my dread

campaign to uncover my honesty

although you would arrest me for

its use, for its avid embrace of my

everyday, my violable liberation.

The Gone 19.02.06

A man stands on a hill

waving his arms to stop

the movement of the world

past him, he would arrest

its serial nature

but clouds and wind do

not stop and neither one

claims independent shape

of the other they revel in

their simultaneity

parallel he cannot help

being defined from moment

to moment to moment

as timed as sequential and

so trapped by the gone

corridors 20.02.06

It is a corridor with a grey carpet, the scratching of it as it

catches on my shoes, is reasonably typical and indicative

of the care that they don't put into looking after those

who make demands of them, there one sits behind a

glass door, the type that blurs the image beyond: they are

the black haired, dark-suited glossaries at the backs of

books about which no one cares and they know that

beyond their immediate ability to impede me, they have

no influence over life, neither mine nor their own and

the aggravation is made manifest in their slow ums and

aahs the debilitating nature of the law unknown to

those who are meant to enact its nature, its ignominy

At liberty 25.02.06

to discuss and dream

to think and suppose

and possibly imagine

a world of words

and a painted stream

of the thoughts running

through my untidy mind

caught up in uncertain

rhythms and a lack of time

in between thinking

that would be the liberty

to pause to stop for

a moment the goings

on inside to listen

to observe unencumbered