I’ve been dreaming nightly
of tigers and of mothwings.
I wake and remember fragments,
and then recall the words that roused them:
“I kneel in the nights
before tigers
that will not let me be
in this room
the hours of love
still make shadows
what you were
will not happen again
the tigers have found me
and I do not care.”
On the surface, an intelligible lie;
underneath, the unintelligible truth.

Here’s a little broken tiger ditty for you.
And a book about a tiger that I waited far too long to read:

I’ve also been reading Chatterton
(the novel, not the actual poet.)
It’s quite excellent and exciting me in a few ways,
i.e. the following image and passage:

“Chatterton knew that original genius consists
in forming new and happy combinations,
rather than searching after thoughts and ideas
which had never occurred before.”
There are no souls; only faces.

This one, apparently, is mine- smeared and weary
after a bit of mad Grande Guignol
at the Hi-Ho Lounge. A while ago.
So, yes. Other than that, everything else shall
remain secret for the time being.
Because I can.