Lust & Pride
The Mousetrap is a metaphor for the trap in which we are all ensnared. What we want and what we are allowed is the deceptive conjunction of our dream and the death that follows when we are closest to it. It is the tragedy, and the beauty, of mortal life.
Noose of Perception

A lost moth, detached

Circled a lethal light bulb

That usurped the sun

(Dizzied, the sun and the bulb

Did not look dissimilar.)


‘Shhh-sh..’                   (she stutters, but that is what she means to do.)

‘Graphemes on grammars grid; just as well, the self is hid’     Written.

But ‘That will never do!’

She writes the wrong,

‘And sings a song, about..’ miserable puerile little ditties that defile it.   



 She starts again/STR ikes –

‘Sawing a tree with wooden teeth,’                (she eats the charcoal

 and drinks the poisonous numen thirstily.)

‘Sicks a pitiful sexist zit’ while she sits now rips but they won’t stop                         handclapping and the sound deafens her in hell.

She encrypts her wine then cries because ‘no body understands –

all is lost in the sewage of the spittoon’,  She feigns.

Her digits dissent, insulting one another enviously and dimming the dinner party conversation.  The fingers fold over one another in a race to the end of unfashionably late resolve.

She blames and bends all her tiny brushes,

 And makes herself a hypocrite.

It is her self-fulfilling prophecy.  It is her


19:09"Haikus hike whose high coups?" — Original
13:51 love-england:

the ruins (by *Cinnamon)

That night I found you, Icarus,

In an ambitious descent,

Bleeding candlewax on me —

We made a secret of it.

You made excuses.

You threw them back

Like spirits in a shallow glass;

You peered through the base

And slammed them on the bar.

They shook you

As you stirred them -

They never stirred you.

You had been counting sheep,

Wearied with untruth

For long before I knew you

I just wanted to know

What they’d done to you

And then you showed me:

I saw the crooked tree

From whence the bow broke

And how its fruits and thorns

Grew through you.

You were restless

And I, guilty

For I slept like a baby

Just a branch away.

17:44"To be a poet is to live for a living" — Original
SM, Sleep

Something heavier than smoke

Slaps shockwaves through

Submerged slumber;

No longer am I weightless

Banal trespassers, insidiously seep

Into my phantom future’s furore

While nostalgia takes me

Where I haven’t been, where I see

Rogue snow in the sun

Vain, vogue, nowhere to run

Anomaly, you are no exception

To the rules of death and taxes.

So wish well on the unknown, invented,

And try not to wish that you were here

For the wishing only worsens

That which we may never be;

Sweet dreams


I look for a long time

At photographs of children

Probably long dead by now