It will always be there

It’s not even a work of art.
Sanguine tresses tumble; it’s
Oblivion cathected to a libidinal 

Promise, and Helena is mad again.
I have seen the pathways 
Traced from the Ionian Bard

In pebblestones like ivory mountains 
Set in miniature sublation to a cataracted
Ending in a villanelle like raging 

Nightshades set into a masochistic
Landscape. The manacles are made of 
Leaves of grass and I would prefer 

Not two and three marimbas 
Bellowing out the same old minuet. 
Tug on the noose of Hardy’s 

Heroine and reenact adulterous angels 
Choralling out a pantomime. 
It is another doozy in synchronic

Overtones that are the pedalled 
Bells of organ notes and a soprano 
Tune. Maybe this time we shall not 

Conflate bisexual and bipolar 
Attitudes which are not dispositions 
Inherited through breakfast at some 

Rainy unenhanced cathedral under 
Cyan black umbrellas that are
Betrayals breathed beneath political 

Environments, of which you were 
Never aware. Contemplate my jargon, 
If it please you, Bruckner was not

Made to gas the Jews, yet underneath the 
Bellicose precision with which you 
Were brought back to me 

Lies a method of discomfort as the 
Narcissistic cabaret kicks in.
A sunshine’s morning never 

Saw me in the eye, but only when the 
Glimmer happens ere we are asleep, 
And another blow-up mattress

Overtakes the fifth. When, 
In the past, I have been known to author 
Novels, you have left a breakage of

Tradition, slippage through the 
Seams of martyrdom. Do not mingle 
Words with bruises, lacerations or 

Incisions; I know how well indifference 
Outperforms its character in 
They will run away from you. 

Here’s another one to contemplate:
Whatever you have not thought up 
I have already known better. 

And then, we no longer run
Out of time and inhibitions. 
Just wait for the remission.