Unicorn

The flower of virginity weeps,
lapping at waves thirstily.
One horn is enough to penetrate
the fortress of a glass heart.
And water will always flow uphill
into embraces. Weep noisily,
you dying flower, drink deep.

Philip Kane

I am an apocalypse of stars

I am an apocalypse of stars,
the skull of a horse staring back
through windows of allusion,
a blue face collapsing in the corner.
There is the door, over there,
its handle twisted by the heat of fear,
teeth bending into the tempest.
Where are you now, creator,
where dare you?

Philip Kane

A Case of Not Belonging

The Masquerade

So Very Little Time

The Equality of Reason

On the western shore

by Philip Kane

The sorcerer’s chair is facing the west
and there is a shower of poppy petals.
How lost we are, how lost now
among the mysteries of this time
we did not expect. Yet still;
the servants come to us daily,
bringing green tea and bitter sandwiches,
and it is comfortable enough to watch
as the last birds fall from the sky.
We came from bright cities, we remember
as we remember lovers, fading shapes
pressed into the sheets, and always
there is the scent of marble. All gone.
We came here to wait on the shoreline,
but what for? Somebody
should have taken a note.
Instead there is a cursory nod to purpose,
and the gradual contentment of twilight.
Somebody should have taken a note.
There are poppy petals thick underfoot
and the sorcerer’s chair remains empty.
The servants are dying out
one by one. Somebody should
have taken a note. How lost we are.