Later Verse Last Letters


The progress of the soul is a slow
Endeavour, full of the ironies
Of the narratives we create

These contexts exchangeable
Half-hearted escapes into subjectivity
That I know I am an epitaph
Waiting to happen, that my
Mortality hangs on a leaf


Like a moment lost at dusk
That my legacies are without meaning
And all that I am will be forgotten

That this world is temporary
These signs we make to each other
Mere symbols in an eternity
Of syntax lost between bodies
Miraculously born and aged


Without dignity, sick with
All that misfortune can bring
Tiding of a lost world

Not enjoyed by God, not followed
By the banks that profit
On the debts of the carnal
My art is short-lived, indeed
And not the childlike plaything
Of how a self-praiser prays.

The Wrong Ends of the Rainbow


At the brink of extinction/
The author forgets themselves
The scar tissue from which we write
Breathes the wounds of the world
It’s not unusual how at the heart

Of every poem, is a journey/
At the tips of discovery
The world changes by how
It is perceived by us, let’s make it
An art, to see the world with new eyes

Darlings, I’ve read your poems/
Like the same old world we look through
With the endless interest of living
We find use in discussing the same things
At the ends of turmoil, ruin, transformation

The author is the story, there is nothing else/
Worth relating, I write out of my charms
And spells and happy western skydrops
Countries of narratives, I couldn’t even begin

To truly describe, how the light cools/
At the idea of last incidents, forever loves.