Tragedy

There is no tragedy
without an audience.

Harken, a leaf awake
its stem an unripe green,
promptly whisked away
by a capricious skyward wind.
Curving an arc
of great escape

touched by rays
of a tender sun
it will never
embrace,
and in faltering capacity
taste radiance
it'd rather not witness --
as forces
govern
the upward euphoria
a sinking nostalgia,
spiraling

a
premature
finish.

The first is freedom;
Second despair.
Beyond the nurturing
branches of what was
once kin,
there will be no end
to abandonment
indiscriminate to youth and
order. An ultimate expulsion
to a world of wander
where no dock can or will hold
this cruise with no anchor.

Yet the sun hears.
It stays, no more than
a shining precursor
to luring darkness,
whispering
words soft with tension
against
all weight
of a tireless fate.

There is no tragedy
with no listener.

So if I lose all fight and fall
into a hell
you wish me not to suffer,
do not rally me
to rise again,
but be certain
that it'll be silent
as a tree felled clean
in forests of standing scars.

For there is no tragedy
if I will it not to be.

====================
Dedicated to the person who said that "every kid deserves a cuddle". Both Macca and Mrs Tan are fleeting rays of sunshine I wish I'd more time to spend with, but I know to be content simply having met them. It remains a life of faltering and running away.

Through the looking glass

Upon a canvass gold,
rinse strokes of dappled rose,
pour into a tidal coast
to end with a radiant bow.

But then the looking glass
tips over, and cracks
into a splintering splendor
a kaleidoscopic dazzle

dashing a prickly glow
which spots the sidewalk's grey
but fails to stretch beyond,
where heavy clouds like white-out
away a brooding night...

And flanking mounds of
rock and flora
cradle a town awake,
as party music thinly zaps
the air alive --
already warmed by booze and fights
and briefly joined
by circling sirens
severing darkness.

For it lets loose
that which none would conquer;
and with each truce
the battle is further
tinged with
a sunset-futility
of resent and despair
softly put away
in a busy sand-box
of children and spades
oblivious
to a live tape replay.

And through that glass again,
(a simple shard forsaken)
an arm outstretched in vain
seems trivial in reflection.

For when dawn threatens,
fraught with change and brilliance--
it is dyed a luxurious green
through this fragment of dreams,
of a beer disposed
to frantic smithereens;
Where a town tranquil
With boisterous rancor
Struggles again from its stupor
(Only to await the next slumber)

Forgetting to look at the drapes overhead
Carelessly splashed
Where few remembered to live
beyond the consolidated hue
of reprieve
from glass and pain, past and stains

But if sight is finally lost
on souls tired and worn;
then please,
paint a sober defeat

Hunger

A flicker bursts and light fills the

A cupboard opens, he withdraws a

And sets a pot under the

Where it fills quickly with

Clatter clatter, the pot on the

He twists a knob and a burst of

Proceeds to whine and heat the

As he noisily opens the

The drawer slides open to reveal

And he prepares to set the

As bubbles begin to rise in the

He rustles plastic and pours out

Noodles sit hard and golden in his

He absentmindedly stirs them with

And soon he has a piping hot

Sliding effortlessly into his

He absentmindedly eats

There is no rush

This hunger was easily allayed

But

Please

“Shut up, my dear,” I gently disapprove 

the record of squabbles of my fighting
champions. That I never would say, aloof
as I am. Yet a referee siding

the wronged parent of the day, musical
fist-fight displays; I deftly sand off those
abrasive words. An almost farcical
restraint, I discreetly strive to compose

exacting essays in a library
Of expectations. I hear that quarrel
on loop. Dash quick; go forth in liberty!
Raucous retch, my spirit like a feral

child in the basin. Convulsive quivers.
For all to end, I quietly whisper:
(“Please.”)

Sweetest Smoke II

I like the word –
Cigarette.
It draws out sweet and hushed
The slow burn
Of smoke within, without;
Rolling forth between tongue and tooth
Sip, un-sip
I daren’t draw that sound
From out the depths of your bitters –
That glow a damnation –
Lest they wink out sweet and high
Irretrievably into the nigh-tte.

Sweetest Smoke

I remember when
We collided
How you bruised me then
Beautiful flower
Indelibly indigo
Upon my white-throated youth
A plea snatched from my mouth
To feel the slow burn
Twisting into my skin

Branding the pillow of my thighs
In acrid smoke
Sweet and bitterhigh
Ash into the sky
Gasping and watery
Cigarette burns behind my eyes.

Discourse II (Aftermath)

I remember your hands upon my neck
The only time it felt real
As we splintered the final pieces
Everything in pieces
At our bare feet
Again and again
Until the sweat was finally salt enough
For the wounds
And finally we swallowed that ocean
Finding the salt that christened it
Still nothing extending beyond the wall
Of lungs and skinBut courage enough
To rail against that penultimate concrete
Not in anger
Not in hope
Only a tribute offered up

To a futility finally acknowledged
The last of what remained
Left in that empty stairwell
Something intoxicatingly sweet
In that nihilistic abandon
And a final freedom to realize
That sad poems do not rhyme.