turn me into music rather
let me be out there
just a semi-quaver
between the stars
not slave to
your bidding
demon puppet to
your demon puppeteering
the yellow of your rabid malice
gleaming, gloating
in my eyes

and there we have it: puppet danced
life energy shot strings
not to be untangled

mouth still (sort of) breathing
whistling a stellar tune
(those strings now
so tight
strung to

exact pitch

for your listening



the house I
built has a
door and
windows too

French doors leading
onto a garden
and now you are here
draw them for

sketch them
describe them

I left them there
only you can
find them


it is windless
cloudless in
that world

submerged beneath
that glass, trapped
within that mirror

so selfish it is
with your image, with
all images
with what it
hoards, keeps to itself
all those
lips-are-sealed secrets
spidering around

and me
complicit by virtue
of this (and other) web of words

which tell you, try
to tell you, what the mirror steals
what you will not feel
as it disappears

and no one to tell you
what you cannot see
(between you
and me
so plain as day)


presume to drive
in a convertible

roof down
better to
grab a star to
stick in your poem
or for
the journey

the star will
be good company
as you
figure out
how to
translate it

metaphors, metonyms
bouncing through your brain

the Universe asking you
to return its meaning as
if you were some
of boomerang
(poem spreading
inward and outward
at the speed
of light

and you
in the backseat, so
patiently critical, along
for the ride


Yes, Mr Nietzsche,
the road, wound
curled, curved

was exactly as non-
linear as you said
it would be

ending in a coffee shop
in the centre of a market

and in the floor
a bronze mandala

meaning food for thought
in the extreme
an eternity to
think through
this death dream.