Poetry

I look for the signs,
palindromes,palms and lines,
melanocytes,
as sidereal constellations
charted travelling in ascension.

Is the significance
in schizotypal whispers?
We call angels,who always respond.
Station to station,
underworld to underground,
subways to highways
in the land of dead stars,
dazzling us in self-immolation.

Here I am,
undeniably alive
as the streams flow
into my clavicles.

In-between,
awake and asleep,
here and there,
hers and his.

The liminal is my home,
a habitat in the clouds:
the morning star
condemned
and saved
in enlightenment:
‍to know
beyond the rational.

Hide, until the chrysalis
erupts, thrashed in a myriad
of skin-textured rhomboids,
as leather scorched
as the headlights upon a deer
or girls in heels on Sunday mornings
crossing the asphalt,
across the church.

Paranoid about evident scars
while aging -- eternal youth
is the promise of the camera
a promise rendered valid or invalid
through meaning, or dread.
‍
Is it not time, to see a
butterfly’s ephemeral
flutter?

Is it the inevitable
fretting over what’s
popular?

Scrawling, I’d still
like to try, despite
the fear:
to seek the light,
past the stutter,
into the ether
crystallised
to matter.