The after memory of a body as it shudders and shifts

A great escalation of breath.

Inked onto my skin, the scent of consciousness

Continuous to itself by illusion alone.

Clasping onto these moments. Elusive and insubstantial.

Neither fabric, nor thread.

A constant repetition — an almost incantation.


The barbarian at play, disregarding all rules,

Searching, cannibalizing fragments of you —

Scaffolding the present,

An endless layering of light, colour and essence,

Sensing an accumulation of detail —

The narrative of a bra abandoned on your bedpost.

The final arbiter

Of climactic impermanence.



26 thoughts on “Impermanence

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  3. Very nice. Why is that “barbarian” appealed to the barbarian in me? Where the heck is that temple full of Vestal Virgins?—they’re never around when a barbarian needs them. Gads, but I’ve the inexplicable urge to wear a helmet with viking horns on it and swill beer by the bucket.

    The “scaffolding” bit was particularly clever, vb.

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    • Thank you, Erik. I am moved by your praise. Truly. I love the way the concrete and the abstract combine to create new meaning. It was my predilection for both that inspired this poem.

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