The Wordless Black

From the abyss I swell up like the blossom of a spring morning

From where I grow is a riddle worth abandoning

I see the light but it does not touch me, for I am blacker than carbon, and this too is revealed as a lie

I visit a thousand hues, yet I go nowhere

Stumble across crevices that hold no substance for me

And as I walk the glacial tops of glorious heights, this too crumbles to delight


Le Noir Sans Mots

De l’abîme j’enfle comme la fleuraison d’un matin de printemps

D’où je grandis est une énigme qui vaut d’être abandonné

Je vois la lumière mais elle ne me touche pas,

Car je suis noir comme le carbone,

Et ceci se révèle aussi être un mensonge

Je visite mille teintes, pourtant je ne vais nulle part

Trébuche au travers de crevasses qui ne contiennent aucune substance pour moi

Et en traversant les cimes glaciales de hauteur glorieuse

Ceci aussi s’effondre en délice


Stranger than fiction… ; or the hemogoblin dance.

Stranger than fiction,

a call from the wild,

time to return to cliches,

through to the camera obscura,

and with that the umbilical chord that penetrated it.

The embrace,

the collapse,




mein wanderers.

We have become mass consumers of our own minds,

in cerebrum malls,

a distant, subtle yet burning self loathing permeating the substances,

in the canals of our subtlest bodies.

Pirates in gondolas.

The neurotic throb,

subterranean in jolly tourists.

Yet we skip, chorus like,

miss the nomad.

That gracefully receives the refusal,

time and time again,

the snub,

the chronic snubbing.

To take a look,

a look,

just one,

which might suffice to bring down the glacial palaces of suspended scintillants,

forever recharging the transparent pipe of hard anaemia inducing rocks.

And the irony is,

if perceived,

and our times are for that seeing,

as always reinforced with the solid concrete blocks of a hypocrisy,

so crisp it has turned white with thresholds surpassed…

silicon to plasma.

And again love finds me,

on this conquering waxing gibous night,


yes, peace,



a middle so gentle,

so finely balanced.

That even the demons are suffused to a surrender, oh so molecular,

swaying at the hips.

Slow motion,

white rock’n roll,

beige rock an roll,



10 thousand frames a second,



a second,

gushing duplication, a retina can’t fathom,

and this it’s bliss,

and peace again.

Thank you.

Copyright, 2014.

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