the Traveller

Some things echo more than others. Sometimes I hear the last sound of all,
that never echoes because there is nothing to bounce back from;
it is the sound of final nothing…
Iain Banks, The Bridge

An international Sunday
spins under my fingers as I open the newspaper;
no calamity on the horizon, good,
then a stray word, a connection-
memory kicks in

And there you come
with a bulldozer of a smile
-the tanks of Spring marching-
polemic like a Dalí fever that grips me
a billion tiny cells instantly form your picture
(the armaments of an unwilling biology on my part)
& I think these pixels must be carved somewhere in my

I’m proselytized again (by you) like
and my voice turns
and I have to
poem it. All. You. None. Explosives.

I remember that night when you said you wanted to try Miami
cocaine, I said I’d send a holograph of us to space from the top of a

You wanted to be
#Famous as the sun
I said you aren’t

Then somehow we got
lost in a range of

~psychotropic lovemakings~

saffron      lips
heraldic    fingers
satellite     anatomies
The wonder-worker did its job all right though it was only
poetic perception.

So Sunday after all isn’t a day but a
an addiction if you like &
you’ll be thrilled to find out
Iain Banks is my new favourite poet
but then
genre is subjective +
this isn’t The Bridge –

You are always the journey +
I never travel –

I’m static;
a sum of all

Kandinsky - Dominant Curve

Kandinsky – Dominant Curve