Saturday, July 27

misanthropist's oomph

It is in the power of belief
To hold the entire life-time hostage
 Within the sanguine red tunnels
A rag-like hope tumultuous drifts
Along the red rapids to anchor
In the docks of glacier-death,
So fuck God!
 If he be, then let him kindly be:
I shall not waste lust on an altar
Where an imagined image stares back
Without blinking, nor admonishing
Nor encouraging but cold, cold
like a mute dozing at a question.



Sunday, July 7

Heard you have gone

I heard that you have gone
 To join my ancestors.
We'd see you from now on
In our hearts or in pictures.
All these fifty odd years 
You were to me but loss 
And as my own end nears 
From vacant fields across 
I hear your cheerless call.

Sometimes I have so longed 
To recreate a happier you
And seize up time, but all 
I recall is irredeemable pall 
Of pathos clasping you.