Unguided Howls…

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Unguided howls

Unsteady drift;

Splashes of

Dusky gray


By intermittent


In due moments

Passions will be swept

Heedlessly back to their

Distant forbears

Where primordial




And a final reckoning of

Every muster brought

To account.

The sun may rise

But its rays will be blue

Just in time for devotion.

Art: “Blown Away” 
Winslow Homer

Three Hourglasses…


Three hourglasses
Stand side by side
Each filled with coarse black sand.

Peering silently
Into distances without aim 
Or countenance,
They have accepted
That fury is dead,
That the gilded raven
Still cries for remission
From remnants of shivering liturgies
Robbed of their skin.

Reflection has eaten itself raw
Into a vast burrow
With bores on every side
Slithering caterpillar-like into
A destiny of hollow regrets
And tawdry labyrinthine eulogies.

A crack emerges and spreads
Like a self-directed pestilence
Amid a population of
Scattering anti-heroes
And descending demi-gods.

Dust forms along the base of
Dreams that have long dissipated
Into an infinity of somber particulars.
Future accompanies a hapless paradise
Into a darkened chamber
Filled with breathless beady-eyed imps
Panting out old southern hymns
From their soot-drenched songbooks.

What the coming rain fails to redeem
We will want to keep embalmed
In this container
However imperfect;
However damaged,
Until the shell is ready to be
And the demons let out,
One, by one, by one.

Art: “Landscape Around Chatou”
André Derain

A stillness suffices for the moment…


A stillness suffices for the moment
While I rescind all restraint.
Faint persuasions are moved to the back of my throat
Allowing me to divine paths
Of supple remembrances
With residual breath.

I weep as the lowly violin excretes
A labdanum of succulent grace unsought
That trickles down the painted sleeves
Of a golden horse’s caftan
Circling its trembling leg
As a new healing heralds
A remorseless search
For justification.

It won’t reach the floor
But will daily emerge at the edge, and dry up.
And the will to believe will linger
On a thickened tongue
Unable to move.
I may sojourn here
Without so much as a sip,
While the horse falls asleep.

When the violin shutters,
Say nothing,
But feel the anointment
Gracing its head.
Then course the unctuous string
With gentle fingers
Until you feel the impression
Of a distant pulse.

Art: “Morning Prayer”
Chen Yifei

Where words fail…

Where words fail...

Where words fail, the dictates of the union between the subconscious and superconscious prevails. It is eloquence in its finest, purest and most transcendent form. Impressions of this eloquence radiate in the form of thought and being from a central point where all the colors seem to converge; this point is perhaps an approximation of the most central point of our own being, the beginning of eloquence. Pure thought is subconscious. Pure being is superconscious (or maybe even non-conscious). Here we are witness to a breathtaking marriage of the two.

Art: “Eloquence”
Jaison Cianelli

I know well that I shouldn’t want you.

I know well that I shouldn't want you.

I know well
I shouldn’t want you.
I stifle
Desire and care
With all the fury
Of a corrupted saint
Entreating moments
Past and future for mercy.
And atonement.

I know that
Spirits are astir
Within me
With vague intentions.
A specter of desire
Comes to rest
On the ridge of your vein
Where your palm begins
To stroke my face.
Three phantasmic
Little urchins
Dally precariously
With the threshold
Of my awareness
Of your presence,
Threatening to obscure it
With three shades of dust
In the name
Of perpetual penitence,
Of chaste lullabys
Forcing rest.

I know well
You do not see me.
You have never seen me
And never will
Save through chipped glass
Thickened with
Red wine turned to gel
Encrusted with
Unanswered appeals
To tomorrow,
Using the songs of old.
But with your voice
Clarity arises
And makes the flute cry
(Like yesterday),
Perhaps at the sight
Of empty crystalline
All gathered along
The river bend
Where I shall want to
Accompany you,

Art: “Panopticon 2″
Guy Denning

Beneath her saccharine platitudes…

Beneath her saccharine platitudes...

Beneath her saccharine platitudes he caught a brief,
yet disturbing glimmer of her pain.
The passion and sincerity in her eyes
dissembled a flame of hurt
that always sought to be extinguished,
but managed to persist all these years
partly through his inability
or unwillingness to see it
and partly through her mistaken willingness
to remain convinced
that the flame was precisely
what she needed to survive.

Art: “Jacqueline with Flowers”
Pablo Picasso