The Right Masks

Fallen bottle is empty,

The galleon  intact, but inverted.

I’m damned in public again:

Without clothes,

Short of good words;

The pierrot-priest

Wears a cartoon-policeman’s face,

Passengers on the moonbridge express,

While refusing to acknowledge

Each other’s existence,

Join together to laugh,

Soundlessly, at me.

“Far from home!” the penguin cries,

Rocking gently cowboy,

King of the silver horses, sighs.

If we can survive these lows,

These lies,

Find our own masks –

We may all

Be good people again.


Trying To …

Trying to persuade ourselves

– Because I am surely not the only one –

After hot but temporary firework climax

That all is really well and bright;

That what isn’t necessarily right

Isn’t always bound to be wrong.

When deep-heart down, even in

Those few moments when,

As the cowboy sang,

Falling seems like flying,

We know that the most

Glamorous of sins will

Not wholly satisfy hunger that is

Soul-deep and purple-weighted.

But again, as before,

We shuffle our plastic alibis

In the guilty night air and

Scarlet tone dawn, whisper

The tomorrow-commitment lies.