(Droplet) spume.

The word, defining, muzzles; the drawn lineOusts mistier peers and thrives, murderous,In establishments which imagined lines Can only haunt.  Sturdy as potatoes,Stones, without conscience, word and line endure,Given an inch.  Not that they’re gross (although Afterthought often would have them alterTo delicacy, to poise) but that theyShortchange me continuously:  whether More or other, they still dissatisfy.Unpoemed, unpictured, theContinue reading “(Droplet) spume.”

katabasis

These days, to write feels almost strange, almost selfish. Torrents of flurries of anxieties ignite the nerves, and one feels leeched before the first phrase forms. Solitude outcasts the voices — depersonalises — and what once was an interaction of linings, echoes of a singular voice with many textures, seems now like a procession ofContinue reading “katabasis”

(Droplet) shortsock.

I have few conversations which lay vivid in my mind, very few, in fact. I’m one for the dead particulates of experience, objects that don’t move nor breathe, still things, oblivious details, a sort of hyperesthesia which only serves to coif the saturnine adepts of purple prose. And my predilection for «things» is not givenContinue reading “(Droplet) shortsock.”