Ruse: One For The Poem That Got Away

What’s that you say?— 
What’s on the tip of my tongue? 

How’s about a piece of my mind, 
You miserable excuse for a muse. 

Love Unscathed Beyond A Reasonable Doubt

Clean 
As a whistle 
It seems this 

Double-edged knife in 
Question clearly 
Went in so 

Deep its blade came 
Out the other side whole, 
Hearty and dying for more. 

Flight in Dire Straits

Mon darkling 
Lecteur, bear with me if 
You will and draw out the first 
Word of this poem’s title, 
Making it two 
Syllables in 
Stead of one, 

Then sit back 
And imagine 
A lone pilot’s night run 
Full of light one 
Second away 
From heading 
Straight into the sun. 

Nepenthe, Et in Suburbia Ego

Your narcotic quiet settling 
Round the circle at the end 
Of the dead-end street— 

Even the white 
Lilies ringing it seem 
To have fallen fast

Asleep.



NB:  An Atmosphere You Can Trust

Knowing Your Rightful Place

Day after day, 
Those they call 
They say the world is 
One fucked up place, 
Dude and you, well 
You being part of that 
They, they say 
You have no right 
To say it isn’t—so just 
Stay where you are 
And fuck it.