A little black book with his poems in

Untitled

I am stagnant unmind;
drifting oceans
like a tourist.
The moon rising sooner,
an incoherent professor.

You and I
must not speak like this
Again.



To speak and convince

We have invested in melody
and married it off to Canadians
caught up in bilinguals.
Rehearsing such codas in artful reduction,
sick of having sex, tired of a finite self.

We invested in melody
because there looked like no other way
to conjure up in harmonies
the sweet versatility of an transient subjectivity
cast away to creation, an indulgence of privilege. For
like photography or rhyme in some loose vocal line-
the colour of your hair in whatever:
This temper's illumination, bespoke, aligns.



Transatlantic jazz

Our impromptu transatlantic jams
affirm the bittersweet pleasure of jazz.
Alive though in coma
the dancing crowds
with unthought motion.
These moments are sweet,
fleeting and incomplete.



Towards a catalogue of history

One moment passed,
one moment fast-
Was this moment just like the last?

Snapshots in lines,
documents of time:
A library of infinities
pleasing and deceiving me.