Défaite

Même si tu escalades la montagne le plus haute,Tu ne peux pas rester là toujours.

Car tu dois retourner au monde ce que tu vois d’en-haut,

Au monde où tu appartiens, le monde d’en-dessous. 
La couronne de la Victoire ne reste pas 

Définitivement sur une seule tête.

Défaite peut chante ses ballades tristes à voix basse

Pendant que la Victoire chante ses hymnes clairets. 
Le goût du Triomphe est doux 

Comme le lait avec le chèvrefeuille. 

Défaite est un pichet de médecine amère,

S’attardant écoeurante aux papilles.
Mais cher âme abattu et battu, 

Aujourd’hui il y aura une blessure, il y a de l’épreuve,

Demain il y aurait seule une cicatrice, une mémoire. 

Je m’oppose à ce que tu émeuves. 

Destroyer 

For what, I ask, do you waste yourself 

Raining on a beautiful canvas while it’s drying?

Decanting your acid into my spring waters? 

Destroying what you haven’t created?
My happiness, does it counteract yours?

Does breaking bridges gratify your appetite for destruction?

(But all you can hope to achieve is a non-calamitous dent.) 
I’m a leaning tower that defies 

The gravity of your acrimoniousness 

That persistently but futilely labors to 

Cause my fall, my breakage. 

But the integrity of my substance 

Exceeds the strength of your pull,

Keeping me from shattering,

Keeping you from triumphing. 
The hand that holds the knife is not

Guaranteed against being cut by its own blade. 

The arm that swings the hammer of destruction

Will itself debilitate, courtesy of its weight. 

Evil Eyes

With coal dust in your myopic eyes
You see warped, distorted images

Like reflections in carnival mirrors,

The surface of disturbed water,

Or the cave of a polished spoon.
Seeing with a visual apparatus 

Slick with a film of judgment 

Perhaps renders your discolored, 

Tinged view of my world and me

To yourself most sightly.  
But, how long will you bear to see nightshade where there actually bloom roses?

Serpents where there actually stand people?

Relieve yourself of that judgmental culture, your cataract, your coal dust.
Do yourself a favor: wash your eyes and see,

Behold the beauty that is,

Rather than contriving an ugliness that never was. 

Flame 

Sulfur mates sulfur.I transfer its child –

A blue-hearted golden leaf

Onto a black spine infixed

In a sacrificial white cylinder.
This blue-gold pendant 

Is the nocturnal man’s 

Misshapen anachronic sun –

The nighttime writer’s allegory –

His passion typified – 

Intense, burning, resistant 

To opposing suffusing winds. 

This is What it Feels Like to be Human

With hearts like diaphanous, broken wings,Pervious bodies on beds of rusted nails,

Minds like speared chrysalises, contents spilling,

We let go of, we lose our quintessence.
We are rocks that fragment under pressure,

Sere twigs that snap, void carapaces that

Crack under the clubfoot of distress. 
Creatures we are whose endurance has

The lifespan of a squirming fish out of water,

Whose vigor wears like watercolor on 

Parchment in the rain. 

Whose patience is as evaporable as dry ice

In a funeral house. 

Whose strength is an armor forged out of a base alloy,

Denting at the slightest touch, 

Puncturing at the hits of dull toy arrows.
Our walls of defense are built on sand,

Our wills are as precarious as a house of cards 

In a room with open windows,

Our unattainable wants, unfulfilled, are balls and chains 

We drag along with us. 
This is what we are:

Creation recreating, 

Uncreating ourselves. 

This is what it is,

This is what it feels like

To be human. 

Bone, Flesh and Soul

Let the wind play upon those bones Like flutes, a dirge to that futile flesh

Which was but a poor keeper of

The soul it was entrusted with –

The soul that was a familiar of

The cradle of dirt wherein that 

Defunct chassis restlessly rots. 
Is the partnership of mind and flesh

As chargeable as corrupt Cain

Who sacrificed an innocent? 
Does the soul seek amends 

For its sacrilege – or does it

Content itself to suffer its keeper? –

That deflowered reliquary 

With its defiled relic.
So like flutes, let the wind 

Play upon those bones a dirge.

Else like faggots, let hellfire, 

Evermore feast upon them. 

But All Men Judge

Judge thou not, and be not judged. 
Your eyes, though they see as much as

A shadow from the viewing side of the screen,

Are shoehorned to be self-blinding searchlights that

Seek and see what is not shown, not showcased. 
Your tongue its bearer’s estate will not soil,

But will let loose a volley of venom-tipped arrows 

At the defenseless repute of another,

An ivory fabric you motley with black words and scarlet. 
How do you, a closed museum of dark secrets beneath this veil of flesh, 

Conceive yourself fit to pronounce the idle verdict?

Even the white-wigged hammer-pounder’s judgment can be flawed. 
Judge thou not, but all men judge.