Futurism—through the looking-glass: reflections of a science fiction and fantasy author.

your love
is a hard pearl set in a wound

i wove it pink
of my anger and blood

a hard thing
set in the flesh of my heart

i gnaw it there
smooth against my teeth

i am cold
clenching a pink flame
blood warm in my mouth
yet i am cold

cold as truth
in ones and zeros

i am god
of the spreadsheet
my tiny perfection
translucent with pain
clenching a tiny world.

The dry corn clatters
grey and crumbling
a mocking death.

the wind blows from deep
within a fetid machine

it is a wind
of power
of money
of commodities

the corn knows
the wind.

snaggle-toothed
it speaks:

Listen prophet!
hunger it knows

dry weeping
for water

drinking
what is blown

grey and dying.

whiteness

is a dream
i woke to
soul screaming
with bad rock
in an adolescent doldrum

suburban night
was quiet
i ghosted
in obtrusive black
a glowing cigarette
against an empty playground

the night
is a dark love
of mystics and devils

the moon
a perilous mistress
hard against cement

would you ride her to God
small man?
as yet
untested
by the mediocrity of morning
a thousand sands of day
wearing the heart
to a lumpy putty

a rage
would crash against the sea
at least a few times

and tear a king
from a white paper heart
burning

and pressing on
towards the shining letters
white in the headlights

a billboard in the distance
brilliant with moonlight

and another billboard
tall above nebraska's
golden waves

not even out yet

i am falling
(it's true)
so far, i think

a living god
holding
in this abyss

am i ever alone?

so tender
a feather
floats...

alone
but this tender furious
God
is holding
rocking.

i am none
in black
soft vertigo
to where...

is that
un-knowing?

The Taming of the Verbs
or
Fathers and Sons

On all sides we were beset
By Adjectives and Nouns
They pressed against relentless
But us Verbs, we held our ground.

They tried to hold us still
To ponder where and what,
But we quite had our fill!
We held our tractless rut.

Like footprints in the sand
They wooed our formless band
To mold our frenzied act
Like beads encased in hacky-sacks

But we proved
Impossible to ride
Foam stallions of the tide.

We rushed about in frenzy
Like tumult of the gods
And I was one made dizzy
Smashing through the odds.

Yukio Mishima’s work has the delicacy and grace of a Japanese garden. In his book The Sailor Who Fell From Grace With the Sea, he sketches the story of a hero who falls in love and is pulled to shore. The story is seen through the eyes of young Noboru who discovers a peephole into his widowed mother’s bedroom, and, in the name of objectivity, observes her night-time exploits with her sailor lover.

This is not a sappy love story, nor is it a sex story. While erotic at times, it is handled tastefully (like sipping, not gulping, a frostie), and does not indulge itself in overly-erotic description, though it artfully evokes the proper emotions.