We're All Watermarks

The Sky and Bonfires

Atrocity Camp

Poetastrophe

Breathless and garrulous vendors of spirit,
ambassadors of banquet table homage,
itinerant apostles of eternal swindles!
Ten thousand mirrors in space
capture it all!
Paeans for every matricide and rapist,
the glories of war and rapine,
how sweet to sing famine
gorged to the chins!
Laying waste forests
and naming it a piece
for a negotiated percent
from the publishing house of
Penbuzzard and Accidental Hovel!
The Muses sold Helicon avant crash and reside,
luxuriously enough to make Sallust blush,
at a Château just south of Perpignan.
Naive, Inc drains the Hippocrene
to make energy drinks
for fitness club Dandies
                                         as Poetasters cram reams and screens
                                         while Poets in urbane garrets die of thirst.

Curtain Fall Oak

       Limbs rise
     to open palm
         leaves.

   The sinister wrist,
shattered then broken,
     never touches
         ground.

Gold curtain heavens
    overhead tempt
  like beauty's shade
  behind translucent
          blinds.

Angler

Seize strains
  of sun sweetly
 falling string.

Dive deep
  with temptation
 impaled
  rusty hook.

I've cast deep
   into blue.

Impression dilates
in concentric spheres.

The fatal moment
  when mouths close.

  My stick bends
 to the sad weight
  depths hold dear.

               In the clear,
                  twist tail,
                gasp on thin air--
                                            find breath
                                            in a bucket.

         Your vanquished eyes
               never close.

Tares

We bend to abstruse meandering but
  poets sup on wishes to be written.

      We shun the inexorable end,
 while poets sing want's incantation.

     Essence true unthinkable
         with so much plastic
                   within
             this hunger for
      the captivating twilight
                of covered
                  mirrors.

Sebald's Lust (A Death Machine Farce)

                   Sometimes devastation is like being carpet bombed with pleasure(Written by me as a line Sebald would have composed after inspecting rubble of Raqqa).



(No surprise W.G. Sebald tirelessly labored to bury ruins under fine phrases like Pentagon/NATO spokespeople gallantly regret leveling cities far from their "homeland".)