Kingsley Station

Original Poetry | 11/25/2003 | January24th

[Kay Syrah]

I would
prefer being
the peripheral
tickle at the edge
of an expanding
universe
rather than the
Plimsoll of an
implosion.

[Kay Syrah]

I like
more than I should
and less than I get sometimes
barely kissed by the flame’s sizzle
the moments satisfaction of a quickly seared steak
but everything else seems
to take a nice long
time to make
rare.

[Kay Syrah]

I have a clock
that tells the time
in all the capitols
of the world,
and reports reliably
when its time to arise
in Djakarta,
I can’t figure out
how to shut the thing up
and I have lost
the instructions
Guess I’ll just
have to go there.
Sometimes it’s
necessary to submit
to the insurrection
of objects.

[Camachee]

indifferent
to the manic
depressions
of gray days
and dark
observations
i still await
the golden
dawn
optimistic
and secure

[Camachee]

she demanded
imprimatur
and he
condescended
to grant
the grace
she already
possessed

[Camachee]

funny
that onlookers
scanning
my colors
and compositions
never select
my soul
leaving the art
of my salvation
in doubt

[Camachee]

i drug
myself
senseless
with the wit
and wisdom
of irving wallace

[Camachee]

reminded
she accepted
solitude
on sunday
affecting
a chic
disregard
for the gold
of collection
plainly
missing the point
of tithes
and timeouts

[Camachee]

yes
and yes
again
sweet love
if not
good sex

still
she helped
and after
his fulfillment
she whispered
her own need
and he
became
her slave

[Kay Syrah]

More than the sooty
ambience of
montparnasse
its land described
by city streets,
pastel considerations
of marie laurencin,
beastly colours and
black and tan,
sleeping like the
the stocky peasantry
of brancusi

every work of art
starts by being
blocked.

[Kay Syrah]

When I was young
I dug cohen and dylan
and useful ditches
in a place of poverty
reflecting on the distance
between cheap despair
and free grace,
wondering if
the chasm was worth
the repair,
and fixing the
price certain
of both. Between
the walls that formed
the sluicing chasm,
I prepaid the illusion
of self determination
with the sweat of
the moments’ demands
and judged the worth
of my self dispensation,
by the blisters
on my hands

[Camachee]

i was
an outcast
committing
the sin
of redundancy
in a community
that only favored
the flavor
of a new
gestalt
twilight
ambivalent
in regret

[Camachee]

i saw
a harlequin
duck
beneath
a bare bridge
jestering
the sanctimonious
south
as though
voices and votes
don't count

[Soaring Feather]

You walked beside me
in autumn
your face, a morning treasure
is forever my window
to your love tomorrow

bentfeather

[Camachee]

a chinese curtain
separates life's desires
your love tomorrow

[Camachee]

i thought
winter
an encumbrance
and doubted
you

[Kay Syrah]

A red sashay
isn’t just a consideration
of paisley and fringes
swaying in the experience
of years draped a shawl
on knowing shoulders.
The foil completes
in it’s cardinal colours
displayed against
the grey.

[Kay Syrah]

Night chuckles
its creature calls
katydiding and
didn’ting and
who can resist
when the late hour
rendezvous slurks
and slides in the shadow
rendered walls of yes
and no, and mickle
laughter ripples
as shepherds tickle
shepherdesses
in the shelter
of the ha ha

[Kay Syrah]

Camden town

Stuff sorts heavy to light,
the sediments of others’ lives,
case goods in the hollow shops
and faux finery and paste
in the naked stalls.
Boxes of strangers’
photographs posed
for the inevitable final sale.
it takes so long for dust
to settle out and
Ozymandias deposes
upon the particulars
of sand.

[Kay Syrah]

Recall

A photographic
memory arranges
images in the linear
cause of history,
recording the time
line of alienation
and conquest
in the progression
of timely recollection
orderly and without
imagination, marking
revisionism as
original sin.