Fresh Poetry ~ “Refutations of the Fleur d’Amour”

Leona Carrington - RefutationsMemory strikes like a train;
the shock of an empty glass
rewinds naturally.
That strange summer began
to prohibit desire; sexual perimeters
so the rules deepen which govern
secular behaviour.
The plot here is simple & fun
to write—initiate devout participation;
penetrate the Zen of seduction
onto a familiar horizon
of ambition incapable of retaining any language
but the sensual.


Anxiety-model women express
in worried eyes.
They whisper when others leave the room;
false evidence, appearing real
led by hormones to drown demons in a flood
of pretend emotion—that was what mother
taught her.
As women of that temperament understand,
drama is bad for complexion so
the ego surrenders feudal aspects
of loyalty & faith.

Track the roller coaster: At fourteen it was
a whisper;
screens kept dividing so she punished them
by taking away the light.
When they didn’t care, she organized
a deeper fury.
Toxic in shame; she falls in love
with disapproval.

Is it a fear of failure which renders
so brilliant?

Start of the next chapter: What is to be
her secret name? The spirit name?
Just before the last snowberry falls
into the nectar of dawn,
with the sun of life she rises
to meditate.
Raise the spell of the Fleur d’Amour:
In the passages of memory
she twists like a fading star;
thoughts like fish float through
as the dreamscape of an
emerging soul.

An ironic coda: Power up her sleeves;
from those deep pockets—she reasons
like a junkie,
fast & self-serving,
with all incumbent strange codes & restrictions.
A film of lurid association
covers her when she returns from
the experiments;
a Dorothy already tired of Oz,
more tricks in her than a pair
of foxes.
So complicated she should come
with instructions.
Back when she was living the life, she sang every
song on the radio.
For emotional relief,
she bullies the stereo all night,
a mind blown to pieces.
Wants people to know the darker side
of ambition,
how everyone gets more & more
decadent & before you know it,
they are crazy
for drugs.

This is only half of the tale—her side
of the story.

{Painting by Leonora Carrington}

Fresh Poetry ~ “In Sacred Groves”

To perceive is to immobilize;
to freeze.
Stuck in this time warp of tradition,
a war dance sublime
can be heard through yonder
protected forest, with
solid roots in Gnosticism & the influences
of dynasty on leadership skills—how hard that whip
must crack for a team to stay
in line; the very human cost
of war.

It has been reported that
after violence, there is
between the parties involved, as prior
motives explode into a
shared jungle sensitivity,
which disregards all that is
common or generic.
Travel instead
into fanaticism mixed with blind devotion.
Everyone into the compound
for the practice
of pagan rites;
priests are instructed with specific penitentials,
for it is the glory of the vain
to yield to proof of divinity
without trickery.

Are tallest poppies
in yonder fields alone?

Fire must burn hot
to illuminate the brighter minds.
Duties are directed; the brethren
with concentrations compiled free
from interruption;
exercises specifically designed
to produce
a narcotizing effect.
Channelled through a rigorous
vetting process which permits males
to bond
a leafy veil;
secretive lore is shared around
roaring campfires;
every nasty thing ever said
in the mountains of memory,
where the air is thin
& participants wait for Shiva
to dance a curative experience.

Repeat periods
of conflict & reconciliation,
when favourite disciples, the best practitioners
of their fields
transference of power through a witch
dispensing eternal justice,
without compass or direction,
energy descends
the realms of mortal passions,
where oceans teem with life & the mysterious
concepts addressed—power behind
the power; rare pieces of that jigsaw connected;
top conductors of rituals
sodomy & semenancy,
bathing in rivers of blood
while ranting, screaming maniacs
complete sycophantic transcendence & ascension
loaded with alchemical connotations
to establish power
of symbolic behaviour—what shade is evil,
creaking like a cicada
in the fallen palms?

{Photograph from}