Metal: that silver grey stuff with flecks of

white locked inside like a sweet from a

far flung future. It’s corroded, slightly,

struggling with the gas in the air and the

acid rain, no doubt. It’s scrawled upon

in thin black excited lines that play out

an act or two within inches. Life is

ground so tightly around it; like coffee

beans that squirm away from blades that

end them. The hieroglyphs of a tired age

and untrained brain run like lines over

latitude and longitude; arbritary

designations of piety. They cut us apart.

The chain link fence squeaks when the

wind follows a falling sun and I’m

snapped back, shivering in a bus queue.


My Family Tree

My family tree leans hard,
branches loose. When the

meadow is golden and
the hills ramble toward sun.

Hedonists gather at its base,
hands clasped, gazing up

into the luscious canopy,
wide-eyed with jealousy.

Sheep graze at its base
and shed themselves on the

bark, before bleating tales of
solitude. My family tree is

imperious when shaken,
with broken limbs it

jaunts in driving rain. The
axe-wielding menace is

coming again. My family
tree is humbled sometimes,

though enamoured when
a bounding youth climbs

and climbs.


In Carmine

We float,
savage and curtailed;
as though limitless,
rushed with faith that fades in
frothing waves and driving rain.
The chants engulf us as a storm
that will rage for a thousand years.
Our motherland is a
distant aching in the backs of
our minds, a longing we will never
embrace, though before us at once and forever.
Blood sloshes
with the ebb and flow
against ankle bone and brushed metal;
the carmine resolute against the silver.
A thirst, never quenched, teases my throat
and another roars reflexively.
When the shutters rise and
the sun blinds our eyes
the world will squint back, pale-faced.
Scars become ash within
faultlines which quake and crumble
and never go away.
Hellish empire exerted; we are now returned home.