Poetry can be a gift beyond measure.
Poetry can be an indulgent, inner past-time.
Poetry can be outpouring beyond our normal rhythms.
Poetry can be a hymn which melts time and space into reverence.
Poetry can be an instruction manual,  a whirring meditation on the gears of the mind.

Like anything in life, poetry’s execution depends on the intention which suffused its creation. The gifts come much more naturally when they leap themselves to be given, in a state of excitement, enthusiasm, and love.

Yet through the work I’m seeing  a movement towards gifts – from cold, beautiful theory in my earlier work to a cosmic play, the expansion and abstraction of different people in my life.  The impulse for art has moved within me from an exploration of self and theory to a dance with other.  I resonate much more these days with art designed for others, as my receiving of others.

Yet, if we can all write love poems to ourselves the way we expand to the other – perhaps that will be the muse which coaxes our masterpiece from the living marble.

The best poetry as the fruit of my experience, ripened through time, spontaneously emergent, spreading out into reality.  I don’t schedule time to write much these days.  Poems come when they do in moments of heightened inspiration where they must be expressed.  Posting them here frees them from my stream, where they can swim like fish and breed in the pond where all inspiration is hatched, and where my old selves, after spawning, peacefully die to feed the emergent young.

Some loves preserved, and old selves eulogized, from newest to oldest, from 2017 and 2016:

Ghee -July 12, 2017

You sip the cream
Of the cream, unthinking
Refinement flowing ceaseless
To your open throat, drinking
endless torrents of clarified air –

Thoughtless we cowherds
Flow to you, and when thoughts resume
The taste remains – the residue
Coats my tongue in the robe of your wandering spirit…

I can feel you travelling between the worlds
Navigating lifes in the braille of your pulsing heart.
A social mixer for the gods, incarnate, churning
The tides, and coaxing hearts into existence…

Those who argue your entangled intermeshing,
(You spangled astral cat sipping milk from my knowing saucer) –
They who overcook the smooth unfolding of your unthinking embrace,
Who require your heartsauce to bear a label, that it may be bottled and taxed and sold –

They are as nearsighted as the too-holy critic
Who dares judge the Earth’s blind weaver
When to feel the tapestry is to know the seasons themselves,
To taste beyond the reliquary of the eyes –
To feel beyond the echoes of unremembered scents
To speculate the dance of the elements in a breath
Spilling into us as us as your deluge of heartfelt laughter.

Sweet, buttery woman,
when this has all been revealed as the mixing
You will be spilled out into the pan, and the fires
Will not burn you, but dance
You into another song, into a meal
Fit for gods, to feed them
And belove them,
and recome.

The Star -March 24, 2017

That *moment* of nuclear fusion –
Where the key turns in the atomic lock
And the elements shout, “FINALLY! – ”
And become the bliss of jubilant ecstasy
Become Pure energy – the howling whispers of time
Become the light of the stars through which we sail.

As we navigate our ocean of dark reckoning
Their shouts of cosmic “YES!” still guide us home,
Millions of years beyond their afterglow,
The joyful death that screams the love of life
Lighthouses, tended by the sacrifice.

I feel the stars in you.
I breathe in the nuclear diamonds
Shining deep beneath your core
Within and through all
The dimming bludgeons of the world;
Like the stars, I cannot ignore you.

You – an eclipse of sun
An apocalypse of matter.

Veiled in the halo of your corona –
I chart the event horizon skirting your persona,
Threading the spectral hemline before your soul
Initiates this world into your unknown depths –
Depths unknown to the needlepoint of my eyes,
Or yours…

How deep can I stare
Into your eclipse, before my mind
Is harvested by the scythe
Of your light, compounded into matter?

Glowing with a furious radiance
Your heart overflows into mine
Our defenses burn away in the afterglow.
We stare through the heart of our stars, melting ourself
Into existence.
Butterfly -January 17th, 2017

Resting on a leaf
Between loves, you breathe
In colors of mesmerizing wing.

Made for pleasure, you
Sip only nectar, dancing
In the dawn gasps
Between heartbeat and time –

Mating in the sun.
Quivering, the petals
Of a flower
untouched by projected mind –

Yet unprotected wings never heal.
Their tears remain until
They can only glide, downwards,
As colors fade,
and the soil’s embrace
swallows all in faceless hunger.

Where snow’s stripped canvas erases vision
As traceless earth cocoons the art
On which you flew,

As silent and still
The echoes of your lovemaking
Burrow deep in dawnless loam –
Never having seen
Their rainbow mother
Their spectral father
Claiming dirt, their home.

Till spring emerges,
And, trembling in fervor
Green caterpillars gasp
And somehow, remember.

Ononism – October 26th, 2016

Weep for the death of Tragedy
The world has become what we promised
Endless sensation, at a button –
Our chemicals are honest.

Tears for the end of Suffering:
Flowers at her grave!
Past her moaning and her theatrics,
There’s nothing left to save.

Laugh at the self-struggling hero
Pushing boulders through the gloom,
Up the mountainside, past the empty skies
towards his Christ-infested tomb…

Laugh, for there is no more room.
Now, in our strobe-spangled womb,
Pleasure, endless, coaxes like death:
Beyond purpose, we consume.

Solipsism – September 16th, 2016

Walking the woods.
Remembering into the flickers
between the trees, treading
these old paths until they blent
into the hypnotic hymns
of passing hoofprints.

Beasts of past,
Too far off to be seen,
Now keep their distance.
I cannot see them beyond
These old maps, the tromping of my boots,
I cannot trophy their hides
With my hidden guns.

My nature retreats
Into the jungle of my past, knotted
Beyond any machetes, devouring adventure
In clenching temples of tight-jawed contemplation,
I mourn my thorny labyrinth –
My lost continent,

Where the confusion of the rocks, the trees, the forests and streams,
Written into my dreams, into the altars of night
The nymphs and the sylphs and the gnomes and the salamanders
Danced through my childhood, by artificial light
Of my bedside table

There, it was my nature to pray.
The story was my argument,
My echo,
the tangled fable of
My tangled self.

Gravity (Desire) –  September 14th, 2016

She’s a choice.
She’s still a choice.
And she must remain
A choice, in every moment.
If desire were not a choice
She would have no power
She would not move us
We would be stranded
In the blackness of
Space without a
Star to guide
Us home.

In that yawning
Abyss, We fall endless
Around the gravity of our
Continual dawn, drinking
Her heart until the stars
Themselves blink out and
Take their turns at becoming
Our memories.

The Seed – September 12th, 2016

Birthed as new chutes,
We were grinning from the orchard,
her wet fruits
Slathered over our chins, as the trees
nodded knowingly in the summer breeze.

We fed
That vast heart
And played
In her soil

Now grown, I crave the seed.
The fruit is an after-
thought. My playmates and I
for untasted wonder –

For vast secrets hidden
In the smallest
places, which sprout
New worlds, bursting into bloom…

Thrown again,
into the sticky lips of our children –
Sweet, innocent destroyers cracking our shells
Discarding our rinds to rot into the new soil
Which gardens us all, and cycles through.

I want to love as the seed
loves, its hidden knowledge held
in the perpetual giving that furnishes
This heart, that has grown me
from Yours.

(Eighth) House Odds – August 22nd, 2016

Play as your life
Depends on it – pray
In the shrines of your own becoming.

Create your games
Beyond the tired
Trumps outspat by
Soul-exhausted dealers,
Churched In the shrouded,
Asceptic palaces of
Godful tedium and
Established odds.

I have sat in those gilded tombs
Where the fallen faithful
masturbate their souls
On altars of endless following,
Against merciless historians
Whose prayers grumble
In the crucibles of mocking time.

And in that stale and measured air
A prayer outspills my hungry heart:
May I play beyond the rhythm of exchange!
May I pray beyond the fixed smiles of embalmed saints,
Bejeweled in death as trophies for their faithless believers.

To them, I Table
even the wild
cards of possibility
hemming Existence itself.


Part II: Requiem

Drink in the silence
Of the sunrise, Lazarus.

We death
Every moment
We do not create.
Until we love,
Death creates us
In joyful, cathartic decay,

We syphon Death’s love
Absent his danger.
And drift in Death’s love
To her tombstone manger.
Until our creation
In love is stronger.

Even joy,
spent in song
In another’s choir
Is at best, rehearsal
For endless symphonies of self.


‘Useless Ulysees’ – August 17th, 2016

Into the vacuum, then,
Through the pale-faced vortex
Of digital men,

Pigs squeal, bright
inside of the screen,
Behind avatars polished
and bulging, time.

Synthetic angels, blind to condition,
Amphetamine laden, coaxed from the machine
at 110 WPM towards the vision.

<QUERY A LOTUS TO EAT!> they scream
The keyboard gymnasium oiled.
<CODED> of flesh, warm and serene
A compunction of Soylent, char-broiled.

The game-makers chorus security disclaimers
<AGREE>: thus the warden is ever blameless
<DISAGREE>: the wanderer’s tamed, and eyeless.

Cycloptic encryption of the profit motive
Burns at the life-fire’s votive replication
A studied calibration of the mysteries of creation
‘Tubed in the heroic trireme:

Now, frothed into siren’s asylum, sale
These surfers of this endless see.
While fractal distractions churn the swirl
Of charybdis’ whirlpool – spinning until
Leaderboards wiped in the daily rejoinder
Warriors blink- in a second, it’s over,

That ocean liner
Of mastery ends
Swirling in an unplugged hull
In the waveless canyon
Of endorphinned brain
Closing the game,
Quits all.

Sail on, Calypso
Whose encrypted isle
Holds the promise of a second
Life for a while.


Over Babylon – August 11th, 2016

The same sun rises
Over Babylon
Where mortar fire rages
Over a blood-augured sky.

Where black projectile rainbows
Consummate their intentions
In the climactic orgasms
Of undug graves.

From her depths, the sun burns,
In explosive stammering
Molten thrusting desire until
Her heart exhausts its fuel

She burns for us all, the same
sun burns over
Babylon and warms
These charred remains.


When my Heart Outruns Itself – August 8, 2016

When my heart outruns itself
When the mourners rend their veils
And laugh, pointing the way
Into the garden maze

Where ‘I’ chases ‘you’
And silence is muted by my feet
Thumping on the gravel
In fervent, scraping pursuit –

Then, the cause does not matter –
We are the goal – We desire nothing
But to lust after us in consummation
Of time ourself.

‘Reeking of Evolution’ – August 7, 2016

May grave-rubbed hymns bleat no more
From the unripe tongue
of my white-frocked youth,

Nor that damned, plaster-coated paradise
Which echoed my dreams, where chipping frescoes
Moulder amongst the blue-haired remnants

Where choir their square harmonies,
Buttressing cathedrals
Of tombstone order;

May these venerable masks of mine crumble
In chaos and pandaemonium
And the venerable books of my dying traditions
Sink as sandbags against a raging sea -!

For my love’s water is broken.
Her birth-moans bastardize the registry –
And the venereal maw of progress
Spills forth from the ages’ throbbing ulcer
Weeping, raw, and vital truth
Beneath the bandages of time.

Unstoppable, my child crawls brazen out of the ooze,
Dripping the holy slime
Reeking of evolution.


(Thank you for joining me on this journey
Into the past year of writing – I have changed so much
Through it all, and your awareness is an incalculably
Precious catalyst.  It bubbles through my brain
And I’m grateful for your time and mine.)

-Duncan, July 16th, 2017