Laurel or Lament, Plinth & Desire and its Subsidiary, Me

Laurel or Lament

A quiet and private light
Illumines this chamberous mind
In soft written birds,
Fledgling and taking flight.

Your boisterous noise of poetry,
Cacophonously perpetrated,
Rips and soars in front of audiences
Of fellow impresarios.

A singular reflection on your
Dark eyes, blushed cheeks;
The two of you. Possibilities
Both; chance a fine thing.

Written in a classroom, looking
In silence at the dangers and comforts,
Excitements and warmths, of two
Unknown entities, unknowable both.


Plinth

what can we presuppose is surreptitious to the stage
in which,
in which we meet the very becoming of, but no,
until haste mustn’t we be too,
unless the very belly of that
which is isn't,
in which case, the affixation
of this amalgam concept we call moral
surreptitiousness is only
abjectly felt within the
confines of
something sickly.


Desire and its Subsidiary, Me

And here to the contemptuousness of no longer caring
For oneself,
The gluttony of a life led in the shadows of an incurable
Detestation of every aspect
Of us un-fallen lamboceroses in the
Microscope jar awaiting a baited launch into brick walls
Of the inconstancy of a social status;
Known to others as some incongruous pariah/messiah of
All to come, a no one, a
Living breathing manifestation of the holy no words, the
Very lack of all desire;
Lack an, I, lack an, am afreud that fraudulently no longer
Crying in the vestige of
Narcissistic yesterdays am I no longer understood by the
Moral mass coagulated around
A gloppy bag of goo that was all our star-studded T.V.
Talk-show hosts and guests
And when their revelations are so mightily pertinacious
Some inconspicuous fallacy
Grips us from the atemporal superego of media-life/love-
Stories, and we see ours,
And, listening to friends talk of the tribulations of this
Society and its trials,
I cannot but help but see it as something meaningful and
In relation my own stasis
Is nothing but a joke of unyielding everlasting discontents.