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Pierrot stands love sick here,
His sorrow deeper than
A mask of tears.
Slapstick does not ease
His ranting inner fear.
The audience find his sullen antics
Quite beyond the pale.
Slumbering in my boredom
I hear salty voices that bathe
The poison from my wounds.
But passions still hunt
To steal away my heart
And scars still mar
My healing skin.
Poems
Are children of virgin birth.
Do not expect them
To respect forgotten fathers
Or to believe in anything
Except their own worth.
There will come a time when
All wasted out
The skin will hang loose
Upon bones worthless to a dog.
Then, perhaps,
My anger shall subside
And slow to a proper pace
Across my numb and broken heart.
I consider Oedipus at Colonos
To have acted well
In the the interests of his crown and state.
The man that has seen too much
Was better born blind
And saved the cost
Of purging memory.
Better the heart dark from birth
Than to have known a love
That clamps and binds the mind
With a darkness brought by human hands.
You are the sordid heroes
Of our modern world,
You masters of office politics,
Each one of you a Xeroxed copy
Of any other small minded monster.
Wittgenstein said
A picture meets reality at the ends.
So it is with my tumbling thoughts
That float in this sterile space of logic.
For all my frantic searching I still find
The answers delight to hide
In the absent spaces of my mind.
Meet me where the women
Of silken thighs
Sit on threadbare settees
Sipping insipid China tea
From long discoloured cups.
These are the people for whom I play,
Plying my trade for my supper and bed.
My days have been filled with love,
My heart has swollen at the sight
Of your bright and gentle eyes,
Twinstars that have guided me
Through the darkness of my soul.
Sing my song, you stars,
Declare this love of ours.
Heaven darkens to show your light,
And I fear I shall loose sight
Of all else except my dream
Of life as the lesser part
Of a loving coupled pair.
Will you free my heart at last
From its weary questing path ?
My dreams do so often belie
The unsensible life that I lead.
What need have I but a gentle wife,
A poem and a cloud bruised sky?
In such pleasure would I smile and sleep
An honest night of loving thoughts
Beside the woman my heart has sought,
Who now my soul, my love, does keep
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