Umbriate Press Poetry

Into a great perplexity my reclusive tithing gives wantonly to a little wish about a little dream I never as child ever had.

Hopelessly confused, these obscurities reveal, so says my good friend Dr Freud, an unbroken chain of displacements psychically solvent, as things go, as the uncanny declares in silence.

These reviling’s cut a sad figure misaligned and anguished of which this posturing belies the whole matter as just another obsession gone minimalist in the mind. Straight lines merging to bent limbs, vortex-immolation in capitulation to fire.

I love the smell of ash, but fear its fire.

Incapacitated, at last, brought on by constant and successful breathing through nose, mouth and skin, I am nothing but a capillary distrusting the gangrenous thoughts I purpose. So many pensées alight in a foggy distance, so many inebriated slurs that even a strict diet of Gauloise soaked in cognac does not loosen the yoke.

Alas, a dire disappointment to ancestral anomalies and other legacies and current ideations of mésalliance. Today I repair the worm fence. Tomorrow I sew word deafness.