Wedding season

Bougainvilleas blossom
on wintersunned carpet,
Grass
Growing into
The edges
of awakening.

Her man reads, writes
of the undead, unsickening
As the morning she-naigh
Breaks the cold nightly dawn.

Maidan

A brown colt
Voyages out
With a roan mare
and the blueyellow sun
on the fields,
green
seen from a fallen tree.
A banyan tree
it was.
Saw an ancient city born
and the hopes of a young lover
die.

Enfin

I think psychoanalysis is the last resort of the unfortunates who have failed to learn anything from life, love and experience.

I am not referring to reading Freud, Klien, Jung, Lacan or even psychoanalytic journals. I am only talking about the decision to spend unbelievable amounts of money and time lying on a couch talking about oneself, trying to resolve one's inner conflicts and lacunae. Do the analysands have no one to whom they can talk about their thoughts, no arms to cry into? Have they read no books, watched no films that jolt the very fundaments of their being? Have they never walked in a garden or a forest, listening until they listened no more?

The aim of psychoanalysis, as the books tell me, is to draw the attention of the analysand to the fact that s/he is mortal and insignificant, while simultaneously being both responsible and a mere spectator to his/her own life. Are we in an age where people have ceased to marvel, to observe, to savour the good and the bad that happens to them?

If so, I believe we have ceased to be human.

The Empty Rainquiver

Blood-blue upbubbling
Ebbing postsurfracing
Waves oshunned
Words unending
Hans unheld
Foe I's uncussed
The Truth is Out There
Xenophocackling
Brownd always, thin Prometheus
Hides purple seisamic seeds
Red tears sickle down
From the bluerring cloudsky

A saffron-chrome globe
Rises from the Waste
As a green moon pokes
Its Northward way

All that is missing
Is the yellow gold
And the Leprechaun.