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Biography is either masked ball or epitaph. As you find me, so we are.

Friday, 28 March 2014

Song for the Predestined Ear

Avian sings to forest:  But what’s sound,
When none but this winged songstress be around
To sense the song? For, even she is deaf
To her own notes. O, melancholy clef,
That whilst it might perform, still silence sneers
Upon the melody.  She disappears.
Yes, long she sings, yet no more than mute mess
Transmits to auditorium.  Caress
Of wavelength finds no sympathetic form
To resonate, no molecules to warm,
No tuning fork sings out, no strings vibrate
In union with sweet and partnered mate.
Yes, still she sings, as though she has no choice
But to persist with un-herd, unheard voice.
Through dead air, life slips in, now to listen;
Pulsating audience. How sounds glisten
Upon fresh-poised and rare, receptive mind -
So well-attuned as if made from like kind
Of fabric. Matched, their instrument is joint,
Yet plays duet.  Each forms the counterpoint.
“I had a brain, five senses (one unique)” -
Now I have lived to know why Shade might speak
Of messages received by him alone,
For, I, too, have perceived such private tone
In cryptophasic signals, as a lover,
In rarer states of twinning, does discover.
And so it is the codes in tune appear
To the paired, perfect and predestined ear.

Sunday, 2 March 2014

Pensées perdu (coz of u)

My prairie sun, fiddle di dee,
Come, test your fingerwork on me.
O, hit your note upon my string.
Hear what fine melodies we sing.

Four seven six four miles apart -
Imperial; the measured heart.
You call the tune.  You play me well.
You’ve got me craving IRL.

I long to sniff. I long to taste,
To wrap my limbs around your waist,
To kiss that part-Brit lip, so stiff,
(Spread stiffness with my British whiff).

You’ve turned me on with mentalese.
It drives me wild, that way you tease
With words and torments.  smart and hot.
yer gettin in me head…a lot.

But though you hide, I see you true;
Glimpse real me with real you.
So blush, my virtual burka boy,
And blow my mind with clever-coy.

Plus ça la meme chose, plus ça change.
La langue d’amour amène des mots étranges.
Le lapin blanc que je suivis,
Il disparut, mais le voici!

Je pense qu’il est un rêve, n’est ce pas?
Jusqu’a je t’embrace dans mes bras.
Cet homme qui parle très loin d’ici,
Est-ce qu’il un fantôme, ou vrai, ce  «lui»?

«Qu’Appelle?»  Écoute bien, car je sais:
«Elle» est une petite femme anglaise.
Mais, Thomas, tu me manques, alors
Mon cher, dis-moi: tu m’aimes encore?