A Torched Dawn

I’m only in the dawn of my

Precious possibilities

But already I know myself a

Mad, bereaved loon.

I sigh, exhausted,

Perhaps it’s someone’s imagination,

These fires encircling me,

The bonfires advancing, dogged soldiers.

Or, is it the outreaching touch

Of Homer’s ‘Rosy-fingered dawn’;

Something soft, warm, a promise of

Adventure! And Romance!

Doubtful. Downright insulting.

Poetics and rouge on the

Battered face of a

Lecherous swine.

I’ll bleed him

Next I see him.

Oh! Oh… oh…

Passions of great stature —

Beautiful, important endeavours —

I inevitably incinerate,

Despairing as the ash

Clumps in my throat, digesting,

Disintegrating,

For the next meal;

Waiter!

Waiter!

Waiter, another!

Through no fault of anyone,

Naturally,

Order returns me to a

Restless slumber;

To a cavalcade of absences,

A procession of the king’s hollow men,

Failures and vexations

That announce and Maude themselves

In an endless implosion,

An eternal event,

A fatalistic, forever fantasia of…

Well, whatever…

Draw me once again into your questions,

My love;

Please, ask me again

Is this world really devoid of all I seek?

Or am I a terrible glutton?

No, a famished dreamer?

My diet’s all wrong,

Egregious binges followed by puke

By vomit by viscera;

To another orgy

In another lover’s home!

And then I come,

The cretin, the lech,

Puke, Vomit, Viscera.

Love me, sweet loss,

Point me to your sister next.

I wonder, even now,

Will I see this beyond its birth?

Are all my fruits to be made orphans

Subject to reproach or

Worse, so much worse,

Disappearance, nothingness, the purple void

Of half remembered things

As I mother then a sibling.

This will burn,

In the same fiery dawn

That shall swallow me.

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