Poems

All these poems are futile

if they don’t glitter

on the night sky of your lashes;

if they don’t glow

in the daybreak of a smile

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Mornings

Every morning
is a sadistic thing;

the sacred mystique
of a dream
is stripped naked
by the sharp claws
of the sunbeams.

Every morning
is an incarnation
of a human being
into a primitive beast
as the stories bark out
of our tv screens.

Mornings don’t keep
the night’s promise;
they are the worst shoulders
to cry on.

Mornings exploit the dark
knowing not
the tables
are soon going to turn,

come dusk.