No destination


Marching toward the beacon, guised, remisant.

Kindness disciplined, deceived, unknowing kindness.

Borrowed from the rind; the kin, amorphic in splendour.

The bough receeds.

A buried principle, from a morass beaten brow.

Horse hair ties resigned to the actuality of vindication.

‘I’ removed, discipline dissected, retrieval only serving to demand the plaintive wisdom of denial.


To imply


The sentient, remote for a while,

Belongs and is becoming, faster than any had glimpsed.

Marked, with reason averted,

Cinders clutching at stained flesh follies.


In the creases


Stones shadow stones and become inert in their disguise.

The dust deferres its presence in obliging tender footing.

This time is not for arousal.

Surrounded, part of the opus.


Extract from ‘To Ira : Seven Parts’