the isms of a Cretan poet

I am the carbon copy.

Desperately drawn

In imitated allegiance to The Original.

Convincingly convinced. Eyeless laughter

Betrayed only by an internal texture

Too fine to discern without pressure.

A pheromone

Leading the bee to nectar

To perfume and petals

That will fade and bleed without ceremony

Leaving nothing like wings.


An inaudible thing to ears

Naturally attuned to authenticity.

The Fraud –

Walking forwards across horizontal stairs

That don’t point down

So will suffice as proof

Of a life striving skywards

With purpose





Of  what.

I am like a line

Fine but drawn to an end

Wet and Indigo Ink

Darker than stain

We left each other’s arms

More open than closed

But a door unhinged and teasing

Adored swinging wooden tunes

Of swooning hollow oak

Choking my ears and tongue

That used to be yours

But for a


Drum Drum

My skin’s pulled tight

And pounds like empty’s


If you could rock me while I lose you

Till hurt fades to forget

The antidote to remembering

But not yet

We are simply one letter

Of a word in our own sentence

There will be sense

Because it could never

Have been written any other way


We were luminous